First Blood
by paperbkryter
Summary: When a young Sam is gravely injured, John and Dean are forced to go to extreme measures to save him, and in doing so inadvertantly set the stage for future events vital to the success of Azazel's devious master plan.


Dean Winchester was twenty-one years old and living the good life. He could go where he wanted, do what he wanted, and get whatever he wanted. Sure, he broke the law sometimes, but it wasn't like he did anything _really_ bad. A few people got relieved of some cash, and he might do a little damage to some property here and there – no big deal. If he made some enemies and broke a few hearts along the way that was okay too – he was confident in his ability to charm or fight his way out of just about anything.

Responsibilities – he had those too, but nothing he couldn't handle. He worked for his old man. His father was a hunter, but a hunter with a capital "H" – he sought out the things parents assured their children did not exist. John Winchester was a Hunter of evil and darkness, demons and monsters, and Dean had followed directly in his footsteps. For Dean this wasn't work, it was quality time with his father. He also got to drive real fast and shoot things with guns. Unlike most kids his age he was allowed to be violent, he was encouraged to kill.

And in the end he walked away not with a paycheck, but as a hero, and damn if that didn't feel good.

His only other responsibility was one he'd picked up as a child, one so ingrained in him he no longer consciously thought of it as something he _had_ to do. It was something he just did, that he would always do, because it had become a part of who he was. At the age of four he had accepted the responsibility of looking after his younger brother. He took the job seriously, sometimes maybe too seriously, and for almost seventeen years he'd been father, mother and bodyguard to little brother Sam. Sam didn't sneeze without Dean there immediately with a spoonful of cold medicine and a box of tissues – and a bottle of disinfectant to kill the son-of-a-bitch germ that got Sam sick in the first place.

Most of the time Dean's job wasn't difficult. Sam had been pretty self-sufficient from a very young age. It wasn't so much Dean keeping Sam from finding trouble, but making sure trouble didn't find Sam. This was the status quo for a good long time, until Sam's self-sufficient nature grew into an overly strong sense of independence. It ran contrary to the overprotectiveness of his father and brother. Friction resulted in blow-ups between Sam and John, and Dean was forced to take on the new role of peacemaker. Only he seemed to be able to cool them both down. When Sam flew into a rage Dean was the only one able to rein him back in. When John's frustration level reached the explosion point, Dean knew how to diffuse it.

Dean often thought about what would happen on the day Sam finally slipped his leash for good. He sensed that day coming. Sam had already run away more than a few times in the past, but John and Dean had always been able to locate him – if he hadn't come back on his own with his tail tucked between his legs. Sammy wasn't a bad kid just….

"Intense," Dean murmured to himself.

He quickly looked over his shoulder at the subject in question, but Sam was fully engrossed in the book he was reading and hadn't heard Dean at all. Dean gave a sigh and went back to his own reading.

They were on the type of case Dean hated, one which John deemed too dangerous for the boys to become involved in directly, but yet one he might need help with if things went awry. Most of the time things did not go awry, and the boys spent hours – sometimes days – sitting in either the car or a motel room doing nothing.

This particular gig involved a coven of witches who had been working some heavy duty black magic. John had been tailing one particular member for a very long time. This warlock had been suspected the disappearances of several high ranking political figures in and around the Midwest, but not by the regular authorities. They had no clue. It had been Hunters who discovered the mutilated corpses. The magic was the blackest of the black, utilizing both blood and sex magic.

Dean suspected the "sex" part was why John didn't want the boys involved.

"The deluded mind of an overprotective father," Sam had commented wryly. "He can't seriously think we don't know anything about sex, can he?"

"I dunno. He did catch me watching Casa Erotica last month."

Sam grinned. "What happened?"

"I thought he was gonna have a stroke."

Dean didn't reveal to Sam the fact that John was more concerned about Dean corrupting Sam, than whether or not Dean knew about sex. The man wasn't so naïve to think his twenty-one year old son who attracted girls like flies, hadn't already gotten laid, but he no doubt maintained the hope his youngest was still innocent to the ways of women.

The sad truth of the matter was a secret Dean would keep until his dying day, because if John Winchester knew Sam had lost his virginity _before_ Dean had, Dean would be a dead man. Not to mention the fact that it was a source of embarrassment for Dean himself. He'd not only been asleep at the wheel when it came to keeping Sam out of trouble that night, but it had taken almost two more years before Dean experienced his "first time." Even more frustrating was the vague information Sam had given him regarding this rather premature deflowering. Dean wanted to know all the gory details, Sam refused to tell him anything beyond the fact that it involved the slutty sister of a girl they both knew from school.

"Deidre Owen?" Dean had responded, not sure if what he felt was awe or disgust. He'd heard some wild tales about Deidre Owen and the things she'd do. "Whoa!"

"She was drunk." Sam had paused to recollect. "I think I was drunk."

And that was all he'd say.

In any case, John had parked the car, and the boys, outside a large hotel complex that had once been the most expensive and desirable place to stay in this small Missouri town. It had gone through a series of renovations – becoming apartments, offices and shops, and finally back to a seedy hotel. This was where the coven had set up shop. The building was large and rambling, with three distinct "wings" and several floors, and only half of it was in decent repair. John went in alone, leaving the boys with a walkie-talkie in case he needed them.

So far, nothing had happened, aside from the rain, for at least two hours. Sam and Dean had started out sitting on the Impala's broad hood – Sam with his book, Dean with a magazine – until it began pouring rain. They'd been forced to retreat to the inside of the car. Sam now lay in the back seat, feet propped up an armrest, reading his book with a flashlight. Dean was in the front seat with his car mag and a beer, contemplating a call to a girl he knew in Kansas City.

Their travelling over the past year had meant Sam had to switch schools more often and he'd fallen behind. In order to keep up when he started his junior year in the fall, he'd managed to convince John to enroll him in summer school. In another month they'd be making a stop in Ohio, where Sam could pick up his credits at a school offering summer classes for more advanced students. The convincing had taken the form of a heated argument, and one of the very few arguments Sam actually won.

For Dean's part, he was glad to be done with school, although he did miss the cheerleaders.

"You okay back there, Sammy?"

Sam grunted in reply, which was typical these days. Dean rolled his eyes and turned back around.

_Teenagers. _

As he turned, Dean caught a glimpse of movement through the windshield. The downpour reduced visibility to be sure, but it wasn't so reduced that Dean's keen eye couldn't catch the sight of another car come screeching up into the parking lot. Unlike the Impala, hidden behind a dumpster, this car stopped right in front of the big double doors leading into the lobby. It was similar to the Chevy in that it was long, sleek and black, but this was a more modern vehicle – a Buick, Dean concluded. It bespoke of gangsters, not witches, and in truth the suited men who suddenly poured out of the car did resemble the gangsters of old – right down to the weapons.

"Shit!" Dean grabbed for the walkie and jammed his thumb down on the button. "Dad! Reinforcements! Get out of there!"

In the back seat, Sam sat up and peered out the window. "That isn't good."

"Tell me about it." There was silence from the walkie. Dean pressed the button again. "DAD!"

This time when he let up on the button a burst of sound erupted from the speaker. It consisted of their father's voice shouting, "Dean!" followed by gunfire and more voices shouting, none of them John's.

Alarmed, Dean turned around to look at Sam, fully expecting his brother to be staring back at him in a similar state of alarm. Instead he saw Sam continuing to stare straight out the window. When he did turn his attention to Dean, it was to say, quite calmly,

"We've been made."

Sure enough, one of the men from the Buick was not only looking right at them, but he was heading across the parking lot toward them with his gun drawn. His stride was quick and purposeful and he was bearing down on the boys like a Terminator in full gear.

Dean had a split second to make a decision. If they took off in the car, they left their father behind, but they were assured of their own safety. If they fled on foot they took the risk of getting shot, but they could elude or take out the sole gunman, and then go help their father. It was the kind of decision Dean hated making, because it put his need to help his father in direct conflict with his duty to keep his brother safe.

"Since when do frikken witches pack heat?" Dean growled.

"Since guns were invented, probably," Sam said succinctly. "So we're doing what?"

The approaching gunman raised his arm.

"We're bailing!" Dean yelled.

Both boys ducked as the Impala's driver's side mirror exploded. Dean dove out the front door on the passenger's side. Sam exited the back from the driver's side. Both of them got off shots, forcing their attacker to duck for cover behind another vehicle and giving them time to meet at the Chevy's trunk. Dean pulled the trunk open and tossed Sam a box of shells, which Sam began stuffing into all his pockets. Dean pocketed another clip for his .44 and additional shells for the rifle he also carried. He heard Sam cock the sawed-off just as a bullet hit the upraised trunk with a "thunk."

"Dad's going to be pissed!" Dean gasped. "The bastard just put a hole in the car!"

"Dad'll be more pissed if he puts a hole in one of us!" Sam said frantically. "Let's go!"

The lot on which the hotel stood was overgrown with weeds and brush, the landscaping being neglected long ago. Trash – rusty barrels, broken furniture and tangled masses of what had once been lawn chairs - also littered the area, providing Sam and Dean with plenty of cover in which to make their escape. Dean heard their pursuer curse as he encountered a wall of thorny brush and debris. He did not follow. Dean doubted he realized the boys were going to double back.

They skirted a fence along the back of the property that separated it from a stretch of highway a few yards beyond a steep ravine. The rain had eroded holes and low spots all along the bottom of the fence, and in places it sagged where one of the fence posts had slid down the embankment. The going there was slippery and dangerous. One misstep and one or both of them could slip beneath the fence and into the ravine.

Rain and sweat stung Dean's eyes. Glancing back he saw Sam pausing to push his sodden bangs out of his face. Sam's shaggy haircut was not for style or looks, but a sign of rebellion. Dean's hair was cut short in an almost military type style. John too wore his hair close-cropped. There were a million subtle ways in which Sam showed his obstinate nature; his haircut was only one of them.

Dean motioned to Sam, and they left the semi-security of the fence-line and angled back toward the parking lot, coming out of the underbrush near one of the old, abandoned wings of the building. One first floor window was busted out and it was through this that the boys entered the hotel. Quickly but carefully they wove their way through dark, musty hallways until they reached the main corridor that would lead them to the central part of the building.

At a set of double doors leading into the lobby they stopped. Two men guarded the doors. The boys looked around until Sam spotted another door off to the side. Behind it a flight of stairs led up to a balcony landing overlooking the broad expanse of lobby. They dropped to their stomachs and crawled along the balcony floor to avoid being seen should someone look upward.

There was a group of dark-clad people standing in the lobby. Four more lay dead on the ground. At the center of the vast expanse of tile flooring was ring of stone where there had once been a fountain. Now it was a fire pit, and within it was a fire with an odd, smokeless, blue flame burning so high it nearly reached the ceiling. It certainly reached the boys and Dean was horrified to see what lay within it. Distorted human faces peered out at them, faces twisted in agony, and they heard not the roar of fire, but the tortured shrieks and wails of men and women in pain.

Dean shivered. The faces were looking right at them. Their wide eyes and open mouths reminded him of fish in a bowl, and he soon discovered this analogy wasn't far off the mark.

"It's a window to Hell," Sam said softly. "That's some serious shit, Dean. These guys are really dipping into the dark stuff."

"Ya think?" Dean asked. "How do we stop it?"

"Better ask – how do we get Dad away from them first." With a nod, Sam indicated the people below. "Look."

A man stood beside the fire pit. Tall, thin, and angular, he held himself with an air of authority. He wore a well-tailored suit with a crisp white collar and cuffs, and his jet black hair was perfectly styled. A neatly trimmed mustache and goatee disguised a rather weak jawline. To Dean he resembled a cross between Freddy Mercury of _Queen_ and Professor Hinkle from _Frosty the Snowman_. This, he guessed, was the ringleader, the warlock John had been after.

In front of the warlock, held securely between two other men, was John Winchester. A cut above one eye bleed freely down the side of his face, which bore such an expression of utter defeat Dean was momentarily stunned. John looked as if he'd either been crying, or wanted to, and the only time Dean had ever seen anything remotely close to that look upon his father's face was whenever John brought up the boys' mother.

Dean's chest felt tight, his stomach heavy. Did these people have something to do with Mary Winchester's death? Was that why John had been so gung-ho to go after this particular warlock? He started to say something about it to Sam, but his brother cut him off with an abrupt gesture and a hiss.

The warlock was speaking, but his words were inaudible beneath the wailing of the blue fire. Whatever he said seemed to go straight to John's heart. His shoulders slumped. With every word he seemed to collapse in upon himself. As the boys watched, the other members of the coven began to laugh.

Dean's jaw tightened. His instincts cried out for him to act _now_, but to do so would mean to fling himself over the balcony, which wouldn't help anyone. His hands tightened on his weapons, aching with the desire to shoot _something_. At the back of his mind he realized he'd just discovered the definition of "itchy trigger finger."

"We need a distraction," Sam said. "You think this might work?"

Dean looked over at him and was rather surprised to see his broody little brother grinning from ear to ear. From somewhere in the depths of his coat pocket, Sam had withdrawn a round red object about the size of a cherry. In fact, that's what it was - an M80 firecracker, also known as a cherry bomb.

""Those things are illegal, Sammy," Dean chastised, and then he grinned too. "Where did you get it?"

"Stole it."

Dean's grin broadened. "That's my boy!"

Sam stood up and made a "gimmee" gesture with one hand. "Lighter."

Digging through his own pockets, Dean searched for the lighter he rarely went without. He didn't smoke – although he had tried it once or twice – but a lighter in their line of business was just as indispensable as a gun or a flashlight. He knew the lighter was there, it was just a matter of locating it.

"Come on, Dean!" Sam hissed urgently.

"I'm lookin' I'm…."

Both of them suddenly froze. The sounds from the fire had changed, and changed to something eerily familiar. Interspaced between the moans and wails was a sound which at first resembled nothing more than a hiss, like that of air escaping from a tire, but very quickly it coalesced into a recognizable word.

"_Ssssssssssssaaaam. Sssssaam. Sssam. Sam."_

"Oh, that can't be good," Dean murmured. He glanced down at the floor. The warlock and his followers were now staring at the fire, and John's head had come up in alarm. As Dean looked on, the warlock's gaze traveled up the length of the flame toward the balcony and came to rest directly on Sam. Sam, now standing, was clearly visible.

Sam's eyes widened. His face turned white. His own gaze locked onto that of the warlock, he thrust out a hand toward Dean and made no attempt to lower his voice. "Give me the goddamn lighter, Dean!"

Luckily at that moment, Dean's fingers fell upon the cool metal case of his lighter. He jerked it out of his pocket and in one seamless gesture, tossed it to Sam. Sam plucked it out of midair, thumbed the striker, and brought a small flame to life. Dean noticed his hands shook as he lit the fuse on the firecracker. A second after that a fearful notion occurred to him. The rising wails and cries of the damned forced him to shout.

"Wait! You said it's a window to Hell!"

"So?" Sam yelled back.

"What happens if it breaks?"

"Let's hope it doesn't!" Sam tossed the firecracker over the balcony, directly into the unnatural blue flame of the firepit. "RUN!"

The two of them took off, sprinting across the balcony, back to the stairs they'd come up. Halfway there two figures appeared at the top of the stairs – two of the coven members. Dean, ahead of Sam, raised his gun and fired. Behind him he heard the roar of Sam's shot gun. Both of the witches staggered….and then kept coming.

"What the…." Flabbergasted, Dean fired again at close range, and again the witch he'd shot staggered but didn't stop his advance. It was then that Dean saw his eyes. They were solid black, with no hint of white or iris, as if the pupil had mutated across the entire expanse of the man's eye. "What…."

A hand grabbed his coat collar, jerking him back just in time to avoid having his throat slashed. The witch's blade whipped past his neck with just inches to spare. Sam whirled around, one hand still on Dean's collar, and smashed their pursuer in the side of the head with his weapon. The man staggered. Dean got his feet back under him. Sam let him go, and the two of them raced back in the opposite direction.

They passed the center of the balcony, where the blue flame's whispering of Sam's name had surged in volume until the voices were now screaming "Saaaaaaaaaaaaaam," over and over again. Now, in addition to the twisted faces, arms reached outward from the flames, hands flailing around in the air, gnarled fingers groping for something to latch onto. As Sam passed, one hand fell upon his shoulder, stopping him dead in his tracks. All color drained from his face. He stood as still and rigid as a statue, and when Dean grabbed his arm, he was just as cold too.

"Sammy!" Dean pulled, but it was as if Sam had indeed, turned to stone and would not budge. Frantic, Dean, glanced back over his shoulder where the two witches still advanced on them. "SAM! Come ON!"

It was then that the M80 exploded.

The blue fire _imploded_. The hand upon Sam's shoulder was sucked back into the flames, and the flames themselves collapsed back down into the firepit with an unearthly shrieking sound. A low rumble filled the air and shook the floors. Sam's paralysis broke and Dean, sensing something else was about to come, half carried, half dragged his brother to the other stairwell. A few steps down Sam recovered. The two of them ran down the stairs and out into the lobby just as another explosion rocked the building.

Dean felt as if a giant baseball bat had slammed into the small of his back. He lost his feet and fell face first onto the marble floor, striking his chin so hard he almost lost consciousness. The .44 remained clenched in one fist. He was only vaguely aware of losing his grip on the rifle which skittered across the floor out of reach. Dazed, Dean made no attempt to get up and retrieve it. All around him he heard nothing but shouting and cursing as he lay on the floor unable to get up.

A moment later the ringing in his ears subsided enough for him to hear a familiar voice cursing at _him_.

"Dammit, Dean! Get up!"

It was a voice he had been trained to obey without question. It was probably the only voice that could have roused him. As he rolled over and forced himself back onto to his feet, Dean saw his father standing in front of him holding the rifle. At John's side stood Sam, his face pale and smudged with soot. Without a word Dean fell in with them and the three Winchesters broke for the doors as fast as they could go.

Gunshots rang out behind them. Sam half turned and fired the shotgun. John quickened his pace, thrusting out a hand to throw open the doors that suddenly loomed in front of them. He and Dean started firing their weapons at the men who came out at them from the pouring rain outside. Unlike the two from the balcony, these two dropped immediately when they were shot. As soon as John's target fell, he was twisting back around to fire again at their pursuers. He and Sam surged ahead when Dean stopped, turned, and let off a volley with the .44, only resuming his flight when he saw at least one of the witches go down. A bullet whizzed by his left ear as he sprinted after his father and brother.

Ahead of him John had reached the Impala. Sam had turned to cover Dean, getting off a couple of shots with the shotgun. Quick as lightning he popped out the spent shells and reloaded, firing one more time before taking off again. At one point Dean saw him stumble and go down on one knee as his sneakers lost purchase in the muddy water sluicing across the parking lot. Dean hauled him back up by one arm as he ran by and the two of them finished their race to the car. Sam slipped into the back. Dean dove into the passenger's seat, and the big Chevy shot out from behind the dumpster as soon as the doors slammed shut.

John plowed through at least two of their attackers before the Impala cleared the parking lot and half turned, half slid into the road. Dean turned and looked out the back window, but instead of relief, fear clutched at his stomach. Right behind them, roaring through the driving rain, was the big, black hulking Buick.

"Dad…."

"I see them. Hold on!"

Dean knew the Impala as intimately as he knew his own body. Under John's tutelage he had taken her apart and put her back together at least a half dozen times. He knew what was under her hood. By the same token he recognized that even though her engine had been rebuilt many times over and kept in tip-top shape, she was still nearly forty years old. She was simply no match for the horsepower the Buick was pulling from its massive modern engine. It would overtake them within seconds.

Wrestling with the Impala's steering with one hand John grabbed a map from the dashboard with the other, thrusting the wad of paper at Dean. "A bridge, find the nearest bridge. We need running water…"

"I don't think we'll have trouble with the running water part," Dean mumbled, a penlight jammed between his teeth so he could see. Outside the rain came down even harder, inundating the road. "Left! Turn left!"

John stepped on the brake and turned. The Chevy's tires spun on the wet pavement, her momentum threatening to spin her all the way around, but just when Dean thought they were goners, John wrenched the car back into control. They shot off the paved road onto a road that might have been gravel when it was dry. Under the current torrent it had become a shallow stream of muddy water, forcing John to slow their pace or risk hydroplaning off the road entirely. Compounding the problem was the growing darkness – the road was barely visible.

Dean cranked his head around as a pair of bright white lights filled the back window. The Buick's driver had not been able to make the same turn John had made and overshot the gravel road, but now they were back and gaining ground. He turned back around, clutching the dashboard with one hand as the Impala bounced through a pothole and came down hard.

In the back seat Sam made a noise of protest, followed by, "Dad…"

"Not now, Sam."

"But Dad, I…"

"I said not now, Sam!" John barked, his eyes darting from the road to the rearview mirror and back again. "Dammit, Dean! I thought you said there was a bridge on this road!"

"There is….oh, crap!" Dean could see, rising out of the darkness to their right, a tall, skeletal structure – a bridge, but instead of sitting on the road before them, the bridge ran perpendicular to it. "It's a railroad bridge!"

"That'll work."

"What?"

Instead of going over the tracks and down the road on the other side, John angled the Impala up onto the train tracks themselves. Sparks flew from her undercarriage as she bumped up over the iron rails and onto the tracks, her shocks screeching in protest. There was little room between the sides of her tires and the rails. John had to steer with precision and keep up his speed at the same time, not an easy task in the pouring rain. Behind them the Buick still followed, but it had been forced to slow down considerably.

"Dean, when I stop, you get behind the wheel. Keep her in gear, but keep your foot on the brake, and don't move until I tell you."

Dean swallowed heavily. When John Winchester used that tone of voice, you did not ask questions, you just did whatever the hell he told you to do. Dean said, "Yes sir," and then winced when he heard his brother start up again from the back seat.

"Dad…"

"Not _now_!"

John stepped on the brake and the Impala skidded to a stop just as they reached the bridge. He opened the door, letting in a blast of rain and wind, before getting out and shutting it again. Dean slid across the seat into the driver's position and put the Chevy back in gear. His gaze automatically went to the rearview mirror. He could see the flash of the brake lights come on when he depressed the pedal, illuminating his father in an eerie scarlet light as John passed behind the car. The trunk opened. Banging and rattling came from behind Sam's seat. John was pulling something out of the cache of supplies and weapons in the Impala's trunk.

"Hope it's a Howitzer," Dean mumbled, and went to check the side mirror, only belatedly remembering it had been shot off earlier. "Sam, can you see him?"

"No," Sam said sullenly.

Dean scowled, fully intending to give his little brother some crap for being a raging dick at a most inopportune time, but never made it to the first word. The passenger's door opened just before he could open his mouth and a completely sodden John threw himself into the front seat.

"Go, Dean go! Now, now, NOW!"

Without a second thought, Dean punched it, slamming his foot down on the gas pedal as hard as he could. For one heart-pounding moment nothing happened. The Impala's wheels spun uselessly in the churning water, kicking up spray but finding no purchase. Dean let up on the gas slightly and felt something grab hold. The car launched forward to plow through the ever deepening water flooding the bridge.

A loud "clang" made Dean flinch. The car flinched along with him, lurching slightly off center like a shying horse before he righted it again. "What was that?"

"Debris," John replied. He flipped on the map light and plugged their police scanner into the Chevy's lighter. "It's moving fast. There must be a flash flood upstream.

Another reverberating clang and Dean started to sweat. In front of him the flood water was sloshing up over the Impala's front bumper. If it got into the engine they were toast.

"What do we do?"

John's answer was blunt and to the point. "Drive faster. We've got to get off this bridge."

"Ya think?" Dean squawked.

"Dammit. The whole county is flooding." Unfolding the map, John ran a hand across its surface. His hand, Dean noted, was filthy with dried blood, how much of it his own was undeterminable. "But we've thrown them off our trail for a while. I laid down a roadblock – iron, salt, running water – they won't be coming after us that way." He shot Dean a brief grin. "Take a right when we've cleared the bridge, Dean. We're going to have to head into the hills. I think I know of a place we can hole up until this water moves out."

"Who were those people, Dad? I thought you said it was a coven?" Dean breathed a sigh of relief as the end of the bridge came into sight, along with a semi-dry stretch of gravel road. They bumped down off the tracks, down an incline, and roared off down the road. "There were these guys….we shot them but they didn't go down. Their eyes…."

"Demons," John murmured, still engrossed in the map and the jabbering voices coming from the scanner.

"Really?" Dean half turned to look at him. "Honest to god, demons?"

"Wouldn't say it was god." Pointing, John sent Dean off on another side road, much to Dean's displeasure – this one was a slick, muddy mess. "Worst kind of evil you'd want to Hunt. You find out a demon is involved in something, Dean, you turn around and go the other way."

"You don't."

John clenched his jaw. "I'm different. You stay away from them, Dean. That goes for you too, Sam."

"Sure," Sam said quietly. "No problem." There was a pause. "Is there a hospital anywhere near this bolt hole of yours, Dad?"

Dean's eyes darted to the rear-view mirror. He could now plainly see Sam there in the back seat, haloed by the map-light John still utilized. Sweat was beaded up across his forehead, plastering his long bangs down into his eyes, which somehow looked oddly sunken. His skin was stretched taught, and as pale as parchment.

"What's wrong?" Dean asked. Receiving no immediate reply from his father nor his brother, Dean's query became more frantic. "Sammy? What's wrong?"

Wordlessly, Sam moved his hand and his jacket aside to reveal a bloody palm, and a wet stain slowly creeping across the front of his shirt. In the pale yellow light filling the Chevy's interior the stain on Sam's abdomen looked black, but there was no mistaking what it was – blood, and a lot of it.

"Jesus!" John practically threw the map down as he swiveled around in his seat and literally climbed into the back, just barely avoiding kicking Dean in the head as he went. "Keep driving!"

"The hospital…." Dean's chest tightened. "We have to turn around!"

"And go where, Dean?" John looked back at him, his face pale and angry.

The fear in his father's voice only amplified Dean's own. "I don't know! Call 911; get a chopper, a goddamn BOAT!" He put his foot down on the brake. "I'm stopping."

Immediately John reached over the back of the seat and grabbed a fistful of Dean's collar, yanking him back hard against the seat and very nearly causing him to lose control of the car. Never in his life had John laid a hand on either of the boys in anger, and in fact it had been years since John had physically touched Dean, period. The strength of his father's grip was unexpected, and frightening.

John's low, growl came from somewhere near Dean's right ear. "We. Are. Cut. Off. There is no turning back. There is no one to call. There is nowhere left to go but to higher ground. So shut your mouth and drive the car where I tell you to drive it! Do you understand me?"

Dean said yes, but his mouth had dried up. No sound came out, only a breath of air.

"Dean!"

"Yes," he croaked. "Yes sir."

"Follow this road for another mile."

John's voice softened as he reined in the burst of temper which had been fueled, no doubt, by his fear. Years of Hunting had taught him the value of emotional control. There were monsters out there that fed on fear, on anger and grief. He'd tried to teach the boys this too. Dean clamped down on his own feelings and focused on the job at hand.

"You'll tell me where to turn?"

There was no response. Dean looked up into the rearview mirror. John's broad back blocked his view of Sam, and the road conditions were demanding his attention. He leaned forward over the steering wheel. The rain and the mud splattering up against the windshield were making it hard for him to see anything, and the slippery road made it feel like he was driving on a skating rink. He concentrated on keeping the car on the road and settled for listening to the quiet conversation going on behind him. John and Sam seemed unnaturally calm. Dean was battling hysteria, but he kept his mouth shut.

"What was it?" John asked softly.

"9 mil I think."

"Didn't go through and through?"

"Nu-huh. It's still in there."

"You breathin' okay?"

"Yeah."

"You think you can walk?"

"It'll hurt like hell, but yeah," Sam said softly. "Where are we going? Are we really cut off?"

John didn't answer directly. "There's a Hunter I know, keeps a cabin up here. We'll wait out the storm until morning. We'll find out way out in the daylight and we'll get you fixed up as good as new." He paused a moment. "You'll be all right Sammy."

"Are you saying that as father to son or Hunter to Hunter?"

"There's a difference?"

There was a small, breathy whimper before Sam replied. "John Winchester the Hunter wouldn't lie to me. My Dad would."

Dean waited with bated breath for John's answer. There was none.

"That's what I thought," Sam said. "It's bad, isn't it?"

This time John did answer. His voice was gruff. "Yeah, it's bad."

"Okay."

"Okay?" Dean couldn't stand to be quiet any longer. "Sammy it's not okay…it's…"

"Dean," John said sharply. He carefully climbed back over the seat. "See that gap – there, that's the turn."

Dean took the turn, and started to look back at Sam in the mirror again, but John reached out and turned off the map-light before he could see anything.

"We'll be on this road for a while."

Nodding, Dean focused on the road. The mud had turned to gravel again, but the track was narrow and tunnel-like. It was fully past nightfall now. The rain had not abated. Dean could sense the incline growing steeper and the trees on either side of the road grew taller and more overgrown. Their branches, water laden, arched over the road like an umbrella, making the darkness more complete. Dean switched over to high-beams and felt as if he were driving through a long, dark pipe.

At first it was quiet, but as the journey lengthened and the prevalence of potholes increased, Dean began to hear the occasional gasp of pain coming from the back seat. Try as he might, there was no way around the potholes. His only recourse was to slow down and ease the car through them. His efforts yielded poor results. The car dipped and bounced up the road, her springs creaking, and her injured passenger stifling a moan every time he was jostled just the slightest bit.

Sam didn't complain though. He didn't say anything and tried not to make any sound at all, but after one particularly hard jolt he blurted out, "How much longer?" in such a plaintive voice it brought tears to Dean's eyes.

It wasn't long afterward that John pointed out a gap in the trees. Dean carefully maneuvered the big car through the narrow, overgrown opening and up a winding drive to a small, dark house at the top of a hill. He stopped the car in front of a crooked porch. He was preparing to get out and help Sam, but his father stopped him with a hand on his arm and a stern order.

"Dean, you're on point."

"But…"

"Go."

Dean got out of the car, gun in hand, and stealthily made his way toward the cabin. From the outside it looked to be in good shape, just disused. The porch was covered in fallen leaves, with cobwebs in every corner. Dean's boots thumped on the solid pine floorboards. No rot. There was a padlock on the door that Dean had picked within seconds. He slipped inside and continued his sweep.

There wasn't much left to sweep. He opened the door on a typical one room cabin with a loft bedroom, and a small kitchen. It was obvious from the dust covering every visible surface that no one had been there for some time. As Dean stood in the doorway looking things over, a mouse ran across the floor in front of him.

"Hello Mickey," he murmured, and pocketed his weapon.

The rain had stopped, but a distant rumble of thunder bespoke of more to come. Upon his return to the car Dean was given more assignments including that of gathering wood for a fire, salting the cabin's doors and windows, and taking some gear up from the car. By necessity the Winchesters travelled light. Under circumstances in which they might have to leave in a hurry, John would only bed down with the bare minimum – which usually meant just the clothes on one's back and a weapon or two. This was one of those circumstances, but also an exception to the rule.

Utilizing their sleeping bags, John set up a place for Sam on the living room's dusty 1950's era sofa before he even helped Sam out of the car. Dean brought up the First Aid kit and made sure they had fresh water. An old fashioned pump at the kitchen sink brought water up from the cabin's well. It was freezing cold but clean. Dean found a bowl in one of the cupboards and left it full for his father before going out to search for some dry wood in the sodden forest surrounding them.

By the time he finished this task, John had Sam settled onto the sofa, lying half propped up on a cushion of one down-filled sleeping bag, and beneath another. The third was rolled up behind him for a pillow. He wore a clean shirt. His bloody shirt and jacket were stuffed into the fireplace to be burned. John began to build a fire not just for this purpose, but for their warmth, and for much needed light. There was a camping lantern on a table by the sofa, and candles burning in the kitchen. That was all the light they had.

Dean expected John to bark more orders at him, but his father remained quiet. After getting the fire going John moved over to a chair by the window and sat down with a rifle across his knees. Dean went to the sofa and sat down on the floor in front of it, about halfway down its length so he could see Sam.

Sam seemed to have gained a little bit of color back, but there were still signs of strain around his eyes and mouth. His expression was slightly vague, which at first worried Dean, but then he realized John must have given him something for the pain.

"How you holding up, Sammy?"

"Okay I guess," he said.

"Dad's had me hoppin'."

"He was trying to get rid of you," Sam replied, idly plucking at a feather just peeping out from one of the seams of a sleeping bag. "So you wouldn't see."

"See what?" Dean asked, but he already knew the answer.

John hadn't wanted Dean to witness the agonizing trip Sam had been forced to make from the car to the cabin, nor see Sam's wound while he cleaned and bandaged it.

"He thought you'd freak," Sam elaborated.

"I'm not squeamish."

"That's not what I meant."

The two of them silently regarded their father for a moment. John looked exhausted, barely keeping his eyes open. Bruises darkened his face where he'd been injured in the fight with the coven and their demons, bruises as dark as the circles under his eyes. As he sat staring out the window he seemed as if he had lost something somehow, no longer seeming larger-than-life, but more like a beaten dog.

"Something happened," Sam whispered. "Something went down back there – that was more than just a coven."

"Dad said there were demons," Dean whispered back. "Those guys with the black eyes – they were possessed." He hesitated, almost afraid to give voice to what he was thinking. "You don't think…this was about…Mom…do you?"

Sam noted what Dean had already realized back at the hotel. "He's got that look," he said. "You know it too, the one he gets when he talks about her."

"I know." Dean felt something stir inside him – anger, grief; the emotions of vengeance. "Maybe the warlock killed Mom, or one of those demons."

"Maybe," Sam replied. "But he wouldn't tell us if we asked." The tone was bitter, tinged with both emotional and physical pain. John's reticence was a big source of Sam's angst regarding their father. He shut his eyes. "If it's true, you know what that means don't you?"

Dean's eyes narrowed. "That we have to go back there and kill those sons-of-bitches?"

With a soft sigh, Sam opened his eyes again. "It means what killed Mom didn't come for her. It came for me."

Dean turned his gaze from his father over to his brother. "What? Why do you say that?"

Sam looked grim. "That fire, those souls. They knew me, Dean. They called my name."

"They were just trying to tip off the coven that we were there. They musta picked our names out of Dad's head or something."

"Then why didn't they call your name too?"

"It's a coincidence, and besides, your name is just all hissy and spookier than mine."

"No," Sam said quietly. "There's more, Dean. Back there, when they touched me, I felt…"

"Cold?" Dean recalled.

"Good," Sam said bluntly. "Strong, like I could do anything. And I felt voices…"

"_Felt_ voices? You mean you _heard_ voices."

"No. I felt them. They didn't use words, they used feelings, and they were happy to see me." Tears filled his eyes as he looked at Dean fearfully. "Why would they be happy to see me?"

A light-hearted reply would have been more in character, would have been Dean's attempt to allay his brother's fears, but Dean suddenly felt all his wit dry up in the face of what Sam was telling him. Instead all he could do was choke out an, "I don't know."

Sam's next words frightened him even more.

"Dean, I'm gonna die."

"You're not gonna die!"

"I'm gonna die and go to Hell. I killed Mom. It was my fault."

"Sam….Jesus…don't cry." Dean turned around to kneel beside the sofa. He looked over his shoulder where their father had just noticed their whispered conversation had dissolved Sam into tears. "Come on…"

Sam noticed John rise from his seat and hastily rubbed his eyes dry. "Don't tell Dad."

"What's going on?" John put down the gun and put a hand to Sam's forehead.

"He's afraid he's dying," Dean replied immediately, but that's all he said. It was a safe, truthful reply. Logically Sam should be worried about dying under the current circumstances. _Dean_ was worried about Sam dying.

"Sammy, you aren't going anywhere – except to the hospital in the morning," John stroked his younger son's hair and gave him a half smile. "Okay? Just hang tight and rest, don't get yourself all worked up." He shot Dean a stern look, a warning for Dean not to do anything to upset his brother. "You need anything?"

Sam shook his head. "No."

"Get some rest. Dean…" With a jerk of his head, John indicated the ladder leading up to the loft bedroom. "You too, get some sleep. I'm going to need you sharp in the morning."

Dean got up off his knees. "Can I stay…?"

"No." The command was abrupt and to the point. Dean was to sleep upstairs, away from Sam.

Reluctantly, although every bone, muscle and nerve in his body was screaming out for sleep, Dean climbed the ladder into the little loft bedroom. There actually was a bed, a brass framed double bed sitting in the center of the tiny room, tucked up into the eaves beneath a sloping ceiling. The mattress was bare. Dean took off his coat and wrapped it around his shoulders as he lay down. He thought he wouldn't be able to sleep, but he did. Within minutes of lying down and closing his eyes, he was out.

He woke a few hours, rising up with a gasp as if he had been holding his breath far too long. His eyes weren't open long before the details of the dream began to fade from memory. In the dream he had been back at the hotel, staring into the fire where the souls of the damned peered out through a window to Hell. The faces, twisted in agony, faded in and out of view, juggling for space, sinking down, floating back up again. One belonged to his brother. Sam shrieked and wailed like the others, but in his mind Dean could hear his voice quite clearly.

_I told you I was going to Hell._

It was then that he'd jerked himself awake. Above his head another torrential downpour beat down on the cabin's roof, which surprisingly had no leaks. The storm was in full force. Wind battered the walls and thunder rumbled over his head. Dean lay back down. It had been the storm that had woken him – or so he thought.

A moaning wail made him sit bolt upright again.

"Sammy?" Dean got out of bed and hurried to the ladder. Placing his hands and feet on either side of the rails, he slid down it rather than climbed. His boots hit the wooden floor below with a thump. "Dad?'

John was no longer on guard at the window. Instead he sat on a kitchen chair near the sofa, holding a thickly folded cloth to Sam's belly while a sweat soaked Sam tossed his head and cried out in pain. The cloth was bloody, as was a similarly folded cloth lying on the floor at John's feet.

"It started bleeding again," John said softly as Dean approached. He grimaced as Sam let out a wail. "I can't keep enough pressure on it without hurting him."

A bright strobe of light illuminated all the windows, followed almost immediately by a loud "BOOM" of thunder.

Dean looked over at the windows anxiously. It was still dark, save when the lightning came, and rain was cascading down the window glass. "What time is it?"

"Nearly dawn."

"We can go then! Get him to the hospital." Dean started to move away, ready to gather up their things and go. It would be daylight soon.

John stopped him with a hand on his arm. When Dean looked back at him, he shook his head. "No, Dean," he said roughly. "We can't."

Dean glanced worriedly at his brother. Sam had his head back, his teeth clenched in pain, his fever glazed eyes staring and unfocused. He cut short another yell when John put just the slightest bit more pressure on his wound.

"But Dad," Dean said weakly. "You said…"

"I know what I said," John murmured.

"Is…" Dean stopped, unable to ask the question,_ "Is Sam going to die?"_ He was terrified of the answer, because he knew what it would have to be. Sam needed a hospital, and unless the rain stopped and the flood waters receded, there was no hope of them getting him there.

"Here," John rose, and motioned for Dean to take his place. "It's starting to slow down. Keep a steady pressure, firm pressure." Dean put his hand over the cloth, putting direct pressure on the flow of blood, but drew back quickly when Sam moaned in pain. John guided his hand back and showed him how much pressure to apply. "There, not too hard, but don't let up."

"Where are you going? It's pouring out there!"

John didn't respond to the question. "I'll be right back."

Before Dean could pose another question he was gone – out the door and into the storm. Dean turned his attention back to his brother, who was looking both afraid and disgusted.

"Typical," Sam said hoarsely. Even in the midst of a crisis Sam could find some fault with their father. "Dean, he's always lying to us!"

"He's gone to get help."

"Where? Where's help? What's he going to do, swim?" Something else might have been said, but Sam stopped abruptly, biting his lip. Beneath his hand on Sam's belly Dean could feel him tense with pain. "He was hoping I'd die while you were asleep so he wouldn't have to tell us the truth."

Dean glared at him. "You really think that?"

Sam didn't respond. He turned his head away, a trickle of sweat running down from his temple. Dean could also feel the heat radiating up off of him. Fever wasn't a good sign, and neither was the smell coming from the wound. It smelled – bad. Could infection have set in that quickly? Dean's knowledge of gut wounds came only from the movies, and in the movies, death was almost always certain – after hours of agonizing pain.

"It hurt bad?" Dean asked softly.

There was a slight nod. Sam closed his eyes. "Yeah."

"Punched in the nose bad, or kicked in the nads bad?"

Sam opened his eyes. "Shot in the gut bad." He said wryly, and he cracked a faint smile. "You're not funny."

"Ah, I'm kinda funny."

"Yeah, you're kinda funny." There was a long pause before Sam sighed and closed his eyes again. "I'm tired, Dean," he murmured, and almost immediately fell asleep.

Dean checked the wound and found it had finally stopped bleeding. There was no mistaking the ugly hole in Sam's lower left side for anything but a gunshot wound, and a potentially fatal one. Dean opened the First Aid kit and found gauze and tape and went to work re-dressing it. After he was done he sat down to keep an eye on Sam and wait for their father's return. He tried not to think about what he'd do if Sam died, and John never came back.

Nearly five hours later John did come back. The elder Winchester was soaked through, out of breath, and shivering when he came in from the still pouring rain. During the time he was gone Sam had awakened and began throwing up blood – much to his brother's horror. The act of vomiting caused Sam so much agony he begged Dean to shoot him, and Dean, hearing his anguished cries, almost did. By the time John returned Sam was conscious, but oblivious to what was going on around him, wracked with pain and delirious with fever.

John was so cold for the first half hour he couldn't speak. Dean helped him out of his wet clothes, and got him clean, dry ones. A Marine to the core, John always kept a stash of military sea rations in the Impala's trunk for emergencies. Dean had found a tin full of tea in a cupboard, perfectly well preserved, and a pot without a handle under the sink. They sat down at the kitchen table for a dinner of Earl Grey and freeze dried noodle soup. Neither one of them complained.

Sam's sarcastic comment about John swimming for help was not far from the truth. He'd picked the most likely direction and started driving. When he ran out of passable road he started walking, and he had been forced to swim a few times. He'd been hoping to run into some authorities somewhere, or a house with a working land line. What he'd found were miles of empty countryside and a few empty homes. Everyone had been evacuated. Everyone was gone.

"You tried," Dean told him.

"Yeah," John ran his hands over his face. He hadn't shaved in days. He hadn't slept in days either and it was beginning to show. "I tried."

"He's going to die isn't he?"

John grew very still. Dry eyed, his grief was revealed in the ragged sound of his voice. "Dean…I don't know."

Dean didn't often doubt his father, but in this he did. He hadn't been a good student in school. He'd dropped out as soon as he realized he could take a single test and be done with school forever, but Dean wasn't stupid. He knew, if only from the movies, a gut wound was nearly always fatal.

Rising from the table, he went into the living room and sat down beside the sofa where Sam now slept restlessly. Sam's hair and t-shirt were damp with sweat. It gave his pale, white face an almost silvery sheen, and ran down his cheeks like tears. He tossed his head and moaned, while his hands grasped spasmodically at the sleeping bag covering him, his fists clenching and unclenching as the pain waxed and waned.

Dean wasn't what he called a "touchy feely" sort of person. Raised by soldier, without a female presence, he and Sam had never been handled much physically. Dean wondered sometimes if part of his obsession with women wasn't due to the fact he just needed to be held more as a child, and maybe the reason why Sam lost his virginity so early. Sam had always seemed to crave physical contact more than Dean. Dean recalled that as a small child Sam always wanted to stand or sit well within Dean's personal space, much to Dean's discomfort, and when frightened at night he often snuck into Dean's bed.

With this in mind, Dean took his brother's hand and held it. Sam curled his fingers automatically, holding on to Dean's hand in a grasp so weak Dean felt a surge of panic run through him. Tears filled his eyes.

"Don't die, Sammy," he whispered. "Please don't die."

_What will I do without you?_

Dean's touch seemed to be soothing. Sam settled a bit, his moans ceasing as he fell into a deeper state of sleep – at least Dean hoped he was asleep and not comatose. Again, his knowledge stemmed only from movies and television, but he knew "slipping into a coma" was bad news.

John remained at the table, his head down in his arms. After a while Dean glanced up at him again and saw his shoulders rising and falling in a steady rhythm that indicated he too had fallen to sleep. Dean didn't blame him. He had to have been completely exhausted.

Dean remained at Sam's side, wide awake, for hours. If he dozed, he couldn't recall it, but it seemed like one moment he was silently watching Sam sleep, and in the next he was standing up with his gun pointed at the cabin door. Outside someone was banging loudly, demanding access. Dean exchanged glances with John, who set his jaw and rose from his seat to answer the door.

As it swung open, Dean saw with horror it was Professor Hinkle himself standing there on the threshold. The warlock nodded at John without speaking and some silent communication seemed to pass between them. John took his foot and brushed away some of the salt they had laid down across the doorway.

"Thank you."

The dapper warlock tugged at his pristine white shirt cuffs as he stepped further into the room. Diamond cufflinks sparkled in the light of the fire, and a gold and diamond ring winked brightly from one finger. A young girl, slim, blonde and dressed all in leather, came in after him and shut the door. She took a semi-militaristic stance with her arms held behind her, standing in his shadow like a petite bodyguard.

"Kane," John growled.

"John," the warlock returned. "Nice place," he said, although his disgusted expression belied his words. His dark brown eyes flickered once over Dean, who still held a gun trained on him, and then passed by as if Dean were as insignificant as a flea.

John's voice was cool. "Keeps the rain out," he said.

"Indeed."

Ignoring the gun trained on him, Kane stepped between John and Dean and moved toward the sofa, where Sam tossed his head and moaned pitifully. The ringed hand reached toward him but never made contact. Dean intercepted, shoving the man's hand aside, situating himself between the warlock and his brother and putting his gun in Kane's ribcage.

"Don't you touch him you son-of-a-bitch."

Unconcerned, Kane rolled his eyes, and his head, toward John. "John, could you please call off the pup nipping at my ankles. It's quite annoying, and if it doesn't stop I'll be forced to give it a swift kick."

"Dean…" John said wearily.

"You did this," Dean continued, ignoring both Kane and his father. "One of your men shot him. You give me one good reason why I shouldn't blow your brains out all over this room."

"John, please…"

"Dean."

Dean cocked the gun.

Kane sighed. "Rose," he said. "Remove the obstacle."

The blonde grinned. "With pleasure."

It happened so fast Dean wouldn't be able to recall later what exactly _it_ was. One moment he was standing in front of Kane with his gun ready to fire, and in the next he was lying sprawled on the floor at his father's feet, weaponless. The blonde seemed to have never moved. When Dean looked over at her she was standing right where she'd been before but with his gun in her hand, removing the clip.

He scrambled to his feet when he saw Kane kneel down beside the sofa and pull aside Sam's shirt. A strong grip on his arm prevented him from rushing over, and looking up he saw his father shaking his head. Dean scowled, confused. Why had his father allowed this man to come inside? Why was John deferring to this – monster – with seemingly no intent to kill him? It had always been their mantra. Evil is to be destroyed – period.

Kane stood and returned his attention to John. "He won't live through the night," he said, cocking his head slightly. "And you're prepared to let him die aren't you?"

"It's out of my hands," John said gruffly.

"Is it?" Kane asked quietly, his eyes narrowed. "If you truly believed that I wouldn't be here. But then, given your newly enlightened state, one wonders…."

John's face darkened. "He's my son, Kane."

"And that changes what, exactly? You understand the term collateral damage, I know you do. After Nam, seeing women suffocate their own babies simply to keep them from falling into the hands of the enemy…"

"This isn't war," John snapped.

Kane smiled. "Not. Yet." Casually he unfastened his cufflinks and began rolling up his sleeves, smiling grimly. "You do realize I would be here even if you had not come to me for help. I would have come anyway, and saved the boy with or without your permission."

Dean stared. John had gone to the man responsible for Sam's injury for _help_ with it? _Could_ he help?

"Dad is he serious?"

"Of course I'm serious, boy! If, like you say, one of my men put a hole in your brother, isn't it my duty to repair him? Of course hypocrites that all Hunters are, you don't honor my men in the same fashion." Kane shrugged. "But I don't hold grudges like some people do either." He gave John a poignant look. "It's been what, fifteen years?"

John clenched his teeth. "Sixteen, almost seventeen."

Dean stiffened. They could only be talking about his mother's death, and his speculations regarding Kane's involvement coalesced into fact. "You…"

"Had nothing to do with it," Kane interrupted. "So don't go getting apoplectic on me, pup. I am only an occasional eavesdropper into Hell's gossip channel. I deal in rumor and innuendo." He smiled slyly. "Mostly."

"Dean," John said abruptly. "Go outside to the car and get my rosary."

"What?" Dean scowled. "Now?"

"Yes, now, before this goes any further. I want a little protection."

"Why John, I wouldn't harm a hair on your head – well, at the moment anyway," Kane laughed.

"It's not for you, it's for her." With a nod of his head John indicated the blonde. "You I can handle. Her, I don't trust." He met Dean's eye. "Go now, right now."

"Boy, just go," Kane said patronizingly. "You won't win this argument because Daddy wants you to be out of earshot when we discuss what's going to happen with baby brother, okay?"

If Dean were anything like Sam, he would have stood his ground, stubbornly refusing to move until John included him in the conversation. Dean was not Sam, and he trusted his father, but every instinct told him he should remain. He hesitated. Glaring at Kane, he turned to make a plea to his father, only to find John as adamant as before.

"Go, Dean. That's an order."

Reluctantly, keeping a close eye on both Kane and the girl, Dean made his way toward and out of the cabin door. The rains had slacked off, reduced to a foggy mist that surrounded the cabin like a scene from a horror film. Two big black cars sat in drive, one recognizable as the warlock's Buick. Dean picked his way across the mud to where the Impala sat, her black metal skin glistening with shimmering beads of rainwater. He likened it to the glitter some exotic dancers wore upon their soft, human skin, and despite the tension and grief he was feeling, he had to laugh at his own vivid imagination.

"It's just a car," he murmured, but he ran his fingers across her flank quite tenderly as he opened the trunk.

It didn't take long for him to locate what he had been sent to retrieve as John kept more than one rosary on hand. Dean also pulled out another gun for himself, and slammed the trunk with the intention of sneaking back to the cabin to eavesdrop on the conversation. Someone had anticipated this, however, and when he closed the Impala's trunk he was startled to find the girl, Rose, standing there beside the car.

"He doesn't trust you either," she said with a smirk. "They sent me out here to make sure you don't try anything."

"Like what?" Dean asked.

"Eavesdrop."

Dean flushed despite himself.

Rose grinned. "How well daddy knows his little pup."

"I just don't want your pimp trying any of his abracadabra on my dad."

At this, Rose threw back her head and laughed. "Are you serious?" she said afterward. "And you call yourself a _Hunter_, what a joke."

Dean was starting to get pissed, and like money in the pocket of a shopaholic, his gun was burning a hole in his pocket. Instead of pulling it out and shooting the bitch, he closed his fist around the rosary and walked past her, heading back to the cabin. Of course she followed.

"Let me tell you something about your father, kid. I hate the asshole, but I respect him. He's good at his job, damn good, and that hack Kane could never get one over on him without help."

Dean stopped in his tracks. He could hear her come up behind him but didn't turn. He caught her scent – leather, some sort of musky perfume, and something else, something unpleasant lurking beneath the surface. He couldn't quite place it, but it brought to mind stale farts and rotten eggs.

"Kane's a player, and he's living on borrowed time. He plays with fire, but he wants to make sure he's always got a bucket of water nearby – just in case. Your father is his bucket of water, that's why he's being so nicey-nicey…and can you turn around so I don't have to hold a conversation with the back of your jughead?"

Scowling, Dean turned. "Can he save my brother?"

Rose shook her head. "No."

Dean groaned slightly.

"But I can."

Her eyes went black. Dean took a step backward, instinctively holding the rosary up to his chest. His mind raced. "What…what are you going to do to him?" His shocked expression hardened again. "You're a demon."

"Oh, don't get your panties in a wad," Rose blinked and her eyes became human again – smoky gray, beautiful. "No souls are on the table, and baby bro still might die. We're just going to give him a little energy boost to get him through the night." When Dean still appeared skeptical she held up her hand, "Scout's honor," and then she shrugged. "But even that will take some convincing. That's what Kane's for – because your father would never take favors from a demon."

"Kane's a cover," Dean said, realization dawning. "Back there, at the hotel, that wasn't a coven meeting, it was a gathering of demons!"

Rose grinned. "Well, there might be hope for you yet, short bus."

"Dad won't do it."

"So you think," Rose said. "Kane and John have a history. They know each other from Vietnam and they know the score better than you do. Your brother is dying because stomach acid and – to put it bluntly – shit, is leaking into places it shouldn't go. The result is raging infection and excruciating pain. You've never been to war and seen men die like that." She waved a hand toward the cabin. "They have. Your father knows he can do one of three things – one; sit there and watch his son writhe around in agony for the hours it's going to take for him to die, two; take a gun and put a bullet in his brain, or three; let us ease his pain and keep him alive until you can get him to a hospital." Rose crossed her arms over her chest as she concluded. "For John Winchester, all of those options suck ass."

"Yeah," Dean said miserably. "They would. But Kane said he was going to save Sammy whether Dad agreed to it or not."

"That's true."

"You'd kill him if he tried to stop it?"

"Or you would," Rose smiled her snide smile.

"Me?"

Rose didn't elaborate. If her goal was to get Dean to think about difficult decisions, it worked. Who would he choose if it came down to saving either his father or his brother? _Could_ he choose? And if he did, could he possibly be the instrument of the other's death? What would he do in this situation if he went back inside and John had told Kane to blow it out his ass?

A quick vision flashed through his mind, a vision of him pulling his gun and shooting his father.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and made it go away.

"How old are you, kid?" Rose asked.

Bristling, Dean put up a defensive. "What's it to you?"

"I want to make sure you're legal when I shag your pretty ass."

Dean blinked. "What?"

"Never mind, I don't have sex with virgins. I just kill them and read omens in their entrails." Rose laughed at his horrified expression. "I'm just kidding. Seriously, how old are you?"

"I'm twenty-one, and _not_ a virgin."

"Well bully for you." Coming up next to him and motioning for him to continue walking with her back to the cabin, she said, "Look, I'm feeling generous today, must be because of this little mission of mercy we're on but…I'm going to give you some advice."

She started to put her arm around his shoulder and aborted the gesture when Dean shoved the rosary in her face. "Hands off," he said. "I don't need advice from you. I don't _take_ advice from demons."

"Whether you do or not is your problem, but I'm going to give it to you anyway," she said, giving him more space. "This job you do, your father's crusade for justice, there's more to it than meets the eye. It's a whole lot bigger than you can possibly comprehend, little man. Back there, at the hotel, Kane gave up some intel that really opened John Winchester's eyes, information you know he isn't going to share with you and your brother. He'll die before he does, mark my words."

"So you're going to tell me, is that it?"

"Hell no, but I am going to give you a warning. Get out. Take your shit and leave, run as fast and as far away from this as you can, because it doesn't have to involve you. If you don't, and you stay with your father and your brother, you'll be the one who pays the highest price."

Dean squared his shoulders. "I'm no coward. I'm not afraid to die."

"It's not dying you should be afraid of," Rose snorted. "It's what comes before, and after." She shrugged and started to outpace him. "But do whatever you want. Take my advice, or don't. I don't really care."

They had made it back to the cabin. Dean watched Rose step up on the porch, his head spinning with all that she'd told him, and kicked himself in the ass when his eyes automatically dropped to her leather clad posterior. Kane must have figured there were worse things than consorting with demons, especially if sex were involved.

"Not now Dean, you horny bastard," Dean whispered to himself. "How can you being thinking about sex right now? Huh?"

He actually knew the answer. He'd slept with a girl not long ago, a girl a couple years his senior who was majoring in psychology at Harvard University. Dean had been drunk and revealed a little more about himself than he'd intended – which also spoke volumes about this girl's ability to get people to open up to her. She'd picked an appropriate career. In any case, Dean had told her about the loss of his mother – although not the exact circumstances – and his life on the road with his itinerant father. She'd also gotten him to admit he was a rather free spirit when it came to sex. The notches in his belt, even at the age of twenty (as he'd been at the time) were many.

"It's a coping mechanism," Marie (or had it been Marian?) told him as they were lying in her bed after they'd finished a second round of both beer and sex. "Just like alcohol, or drugs, or any of the other things people get addicted to."

"I'm a sex addict?" Dean had found this funny, and the rest of it ironic considering he'd been drunk too. He'd been drinking since he was fifteen. He _knew_ he was an alcoholic.

"No, not in the truest sense of the word, but you're definitely using it as a crutch." She'd propped herself up on one elbow so she could look down at him. "Let me ask you something. How much stress have you been under lately?"

Dean had confessed to feeling very stressed. Sam had just been returned to the fold after one of his disappearing acts, and not only had John laid into him this time, but Dean had as well, resulting in one of the biggest fights the family had ever experienced. At the time when Dean had met Marie, he and Sam were still not on speaking terms.

So, Dean surmised, his inappropriate thoughts regarding Rose's gorgeous ass were simply a result of stress.

"A bottle of whiskey would be a hell of a lot safer," he murmured, and jogged up the steps himself.

Inside there was, indeed, a stand-off going on between John and Kane, Dean could tell immediately just from the stern look on his father's face. Kane was sitting in the chair beside Sam, his legs crossed and his hands laced over one knee. The body language gave it all away. Kane had made an offer, and John had refused it.

Rose stood nearby, her expression carefully neutral. Dean handed the rosary to John, who pocketed it without taking his eyes off of Kane.

"What's going on?" Dean asked softly.

"We've reached a stalemate," Kane said casually, lifting a hand and examining his neatly trimmed nails. "I prefer to work in more…" He looked at the floor with disdain. "Hospitable, conditions."

"You're not taking him anywhere," John said.

"Winchester, be reasonable."

"I said, no."

Kane stared up at him for a long moment, then uncrossed his legs and stood up. "Fine, John. It's your decision. The boy dies." He shrugged, and shot Dean a glance. "Keep that gun handy. You'll want it when you can't stand your brother's screaming anymore, because this," he pointed at the restless Sam, "will get a whole lot worse before morning."

"Dad…" Dean said plaintively.

John appeared torn. He did not, however, try to stop Kane from leaving.

It was Rose who finally spoke up. "A compromise," she interjected. "We take the boy, but Dean goes with us."

At this, John laughed bitterly. "What kind of a fool do you think I am?"

Dean ignored him. "Fine," he said. "I'll go."

"What? No! Dean, you and Sam are not going anywhere!"

"He's dying! If they can help…"

"No."

"Dad!"

"I said no, Dean!"

Kane rolled his eyes. "Please. I did not come here to bear witness to your family drama, John. Let me save your son. Dean comes just to – chaperone – nothing more. When we're done, both boys come back to you without any harm done."

"Like I'd trust you?" John snapped. "After what you…" he stopped abruptly. "You've sold your soul, Vinnie. I can't trust you. Not anymore. Not now."

"Because you're a Hunter?"

"Because _she's_ a demon!" John shot back, pointing at Rose. "And how many others were there, four, five? You think you're in control, but you're not! They'll kill you in the end."

Kane gave him a wry smile. "And you think I don't know that?" he said softly. "John, I know we're fighting on opposite sides of this battle now, but once we fought a common enemy. What I told you tonight wasn't to taunt you, but to warn you, because I _owe_ you. Hell's going to get me in the end, that's true, but until then I _am_ calling the shots, and I still haven't paid my debt." He paused and gave John an earnest look. "Please. Let me save Sam, if only for his brother's sake."

The silence was deafening, and seemed to go on far longer than it actually did. John's defiant gaze faltered as he looked from Kane, to Dean, and then back at Sam. Finally his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Fine," he said. "Dean goes with you, but I want both of them back by morning – unharmed." His eyes narrowed. "And if they aren't, I'll kill you with my bare hands."

"Oh," Kane grinned. "I love it when you threaten me."

John ignored him, calling Dean to his side with a gesture. The two of them stepped into the kitchen where John looked Dean in the eye and gave him instructions.

"I don't know what you'll see, Dean. I don't know what they're planning, but if it goes bad, if you are suspicious at all about what they're doing, I want you to get out right away, even if it means leaving Sam behind."

"What? I can't do…"

"You can, and you will," John's grip on Dean's arm tightened almost painfully. "I won't lose you both, do you understand?"

Dean nodded. "Yessir."

Reaching into his pocket, John withdrew the rosary, a silver flask, and the keys to the Impala. "You know how to make holy water?"

"Yes."

"Fill this before you go, and keep the rosary close to you. Take the car in case you need to get away quickly."

"The car? But what about you?"

"I'll be here when you get back," John's mouth set grimly. "They won't allow me to follow, you know that, and if you don't come back by morning…"

Dean's stomach knotted at the prospect of never seeing his father again. "Dad…"

John reassured him. "I can walk out of here better than I could drive right now, but I'll be back, and I'll find you. I promise." He moved his hand from Dean's arm to his shoulder. "This one is all yours, Dean, I'm trusting you to look after Sammy, and to get both of you home safely."

"Yessir," Dean whispered, and managed a weak smile. "I'll make sure Sammy's okay, Dad. I always do."

They parted. Dean paused just long enough to fill the flask with water sanctified with the rosary, before rejoining Kane and Rose. Rose had lifted Sam into her arms, a feat a human woman could not have managed, for even as thin as he was, Sam had shot up like a weed over the summer and was as tall as his father. The sight was almost laughable. The demon girl was tall, but in her arms the gangly teenager looked huge. Sam's head rested on her shoulder. He hadn't stirred, fueling Dean's worries.

Outside Rose started toward the Buick, but Dean stopped her. "No. He rides with me."

Rose and Kane exchanged glances. Kane smiled. "Like father, like son." He nodded. "Let young Johnny there chauffer his brother."

Carefully, Rose laid Sam down in the Impala's back seat and shut the doors. As she passed Dean she shot him a warning look and said, "Make sure you keep up," before getting behind the wheel of the Buick.

They set out in the dark, twisting through narrow wooded tracks, skirting around stretches of flooded farmland where water stood reflecting the cloudy sky like a black, liquid mirror. Dean could imagine that it was much deeper than it looked and one false move could send him plummeting down fathoms to his death.

There wasn't much to navigate by. The storm had knocked out power all around the county, and flood water had rendered landmarks unrecognizable – not that Dean would have recognized them anyway. The skies were clouded over with no moon or stars visible. It was a barren, ugly landscape – black on black like demon eyes. Dean had only the Impala's headlights to help him find the way, and the Buick's red taillights to guide him. It felt like the night was closing in on him.

Music would have helped, for the silence was almost chilling, but Dean did not want to disturb Sam. Instead he listened to the Chevy's throaty engine growl and the creak of her shocks as they rocked along an uneven road. The Buick had picked up its pace a little. Dean was hard pressed to keep the red lights in his sight. His concentration was such that when Sam spoke it made him jump.

"Dean?"

It was barely a whisper, but in the quiet it sounded almost like a shout.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

"Where…where we going?"

"We're going to get you all fixed up."

"Hospital?"

Dean hesitated. "A doctor," he said, wincing slightly. Warlock – witch doctor – same thing, right?

Sam didn't answer. He was quiet for so long in fact, Dean was tempted to pull over and check on him. When he finally spoke it was obvious he wasn't quite right.

"It wants out," Sam whispered fiercely. "Dean, it's going to get out."

"What is?"

"Monster…clawing me inside." As if to illustrate his point, Sam moaned, and his voice took on a more strident tone. "Dean, don't let it out!" he said shrilly. "It'll kill us. It'll kill us all!"

"Sammy you're talkin' out of your head."

"No!"

"You're hurt, the fever…."

"It's in me!" Sam insisted. "It wants out. We have to stop it!" He moaned again. "Dean, please…help me!"

"I am, Sammy. I am. Just hang on."

Dean pressed his foot down harder on the gas pedal. The Impala surged forward quickly catching up to the Buick from where Dean had fallen slightly behind. He hugged the other car's back bumper, following as closely as he dared. Too close – he almost ended up in the Buick's trunk when it suddenly braked and turned up a long gravel driveway.

He had expected them to go back to the hotel, only belatedly realizing the flood had cut them off from that route. Instead they had now turned into the driveway of a large, rambling Tudor style home. It had barely survived becoming a casualty of the flood. Water had inundated the side yard, and part of the driveway. The cars sloshed through six inches of water before coming to a stop near the front door, which had been surrounded by sandbags just in case the water rose further.

The lights were on inside. When Dean opened his door he could hear in the distance the sound of a motor running – a generator was powering the lights. This house had not escaped the power outages either.

Quickly, he opened the door to the Chevy's back seat where Sam had fallen still once again. Dean reached in and touched his brother's face and found his skin cold to the touch.

"Sam!"

A hand yanked hard at his jacket, forcing him back. Rose shouldered him aside and gathered Sam into her arms. Dean wasn't sure he liked her expression, and was sure he didn't like her words.

"Kane," she called. "We need to hurry."

They rushed into the house with Dean following anxiously behind. Inside the lavishly furnished home, Rose turned into a room off the foyer – a den – where Kane had pulled out a sleeper sofa. Rose laid Sam down on the bed and stripped off his shirt and the bandages over his wound. The warlock knelt beside the bed and placed a hand above the wound, not touching, just hovering above it.

"Is he breathing?" Dean asked frantically. Sam's lips were beginning to take on a distinct bluish tinge. "He's not breathing!"

"He will be," Kane murmured, and closed his eyes.

For a heartbeat nothing at all happened, and then suddenly Sam's eyes opened and he drew in a deep breath of air. This was just as quickly followed by his body arcing up off the mattress as if there were a string attached to his belly; a string leading up to the warlock's hand, which still had not touched him. This spine cracking spasm was accompanied by a scream so shrill it struck Dean with an almost physical force. He stumbled backward at step.

When he recovered he took two steps forward. "What are you doing to him?" he demanded. "Stop!"

Rose turned around, and as swift as a viper had Dean backed up against the wall. Her eyes were dark, and her lip curled into a snarl. ""He's removing the bullet," she hissed. "Now stand still and shut up!"

"Don't…"

"Little man, do you want to be silenced?" Rose threatened. "Don't push me."

Sam continued screaming, his body convulsing violently beneath Kane's hand. Blood and pus began flowing from the wound, along with a putrid smell. Dean felt his stomach churn. He had to fight the urge to throw up. He was already fighting tears. The screams were like nothing he'd ever heard before, filled with agony, nearly inhuman.

"Make him stop!" he pleaded to Rose. "Please, make him stop!"

She wasn't moved to sympathy. She stood there, impassive, keeping Dean back from where Kane worked. Only when Kane's hand suddenly snapped into a closed fist, and Sam fell back to the bed to lie still as death, did Rose let Dean move. He rushed to the bed and found his brother alive and breathing in short, shallow gasps that sounded almost like sobs. Dean couldn't tell for sure if he were conscious or not. His eyes were open, but rolled back so far nearly all one could see were the whites.

"Rose," Kane said quietly. "If you would be a dear and fetch bandaging and clean linens, I would be most appreciative."

The demon hesitated, obviously torn between obeying and telling the human upstart to shove it up his ass. Under normal circumstances Dean might have found this funny, and perhaps worthy of a snide remark, but these were far, far away from normal circumstances. His attention was focused on Sam, not the politics playing out between Rose and Kane. He barely noticed when Rose finally acquiesced and left the room. When Kane spoke a moment later, it took a second for Dean to register the fact the warlock was speaking to him.

"I had a brother once," Kane said. "We were close, like you and Sam. I was younger by about a year or so. There wasn't anything I wouldn't do for Nicky." He shook his head as he deposited the bloody chunk of lead he'd removed from Sam's wound into the waste basket. From his pocket he withdrew a clean white handkerchief and began wiping the blood from his fingers. "We both got drafted the same year, but because our mother was ill, the military decided one of us needed to stay home. I volunteered to go to war because I'd been listening to the news. I knew it was a no-win situation."

He rose, and began walking around the room, idly picking up and putting things down again. Dean watched him for some time before prompting, "And I care about this, why?"

"I don't expect you to give a damn," Kane replied tersely. "Because I know you don't. I do expect you to listen."

He put a solid black paperweight made of blown glass down upon a shelf and returned to the bed. Shooing Dean out of his way, he put a hand to Sam's forehead. Sam's eyes fluttered closed and he seemed to relax. His breathing became less labored, more normal.

"I went to war," the warlock continued. He'd dropped his formal speaking pattern, losing his pretentious air as he revealed more personal information. "I joined the Marines, and fought beside your father. I killed far more men during that time than I ever have since." He shook his head sadly. "And there, out in those stinkin' jungles, I got word my brother was dead." Pausing, almost as if he expected Dean to comment, Kane only went on when Dean remained silent. "We lived in the country, not far from Chicago. Nicky had to go into the city one day to get our mother's medicine. While he was there he stumbled into a war rally that had turned ugly. He was mistaken for a protester, and an overzealous cop hit him in the head with a baton. Nicky went down, and never got up again. He died three days later. Three days after that, distraught with grief, my mother died too."

"Sucks," Dean muttered, moved, but unwilling to show it other than a token word of sympathy.

Kane smiled bitterly. "More than you know. The thought of going home and finding my family gone, was more than I could stand. I almost killed myself. I almost ate a bullet, but there was one thing that kept me from doing it. It was something your father said to me."

"What was that?"

"He said, 'Vinnie, if you try it and screw up, they'll send you home for being a nut job. You really want to kill yourself, stay here and let the Vietcong do it for you.'" Kane shrugged. "So I did, and I tried my damnedest to get myself killed by doing some really reckless and stupid shit, but the damn Vietcong kept missing. In the meantime John kept me sane, kept my mind off what I'd lost. He had a girl, he said, back home. He wanted to write her, tell her how much he loved her, but he wasn't much of a writer. Wooing your mother became my distraction. All the letters she thought were from John were mostly my doing."

"I didn't know they went back that far."

"He met her in high school, and then got drafted before he could really get anywhere with her. He was afraid she wouldn't wait, but she did." The warlock looked back over his shoulder. "John and I were good friends, Dean, until we went home. He went back to Mary. I went home to nothing, nobody. That's when it all came back to me, realizing all that I'd lost. I did anything I could to ease the pain, and ultimately, I turned down the dark path that led me here." He met Dean's eye. "I don't intend to let your brother die, but if he does, don't let the darkness overtake you like it did me."

Dean snorted. "I'm a Hunter…"

"That won't matter. Those that hunt the things that live in darkness must also live in darkness. It surrounds you, and those like you. If you take one foot off the righteous road you follow, Dean it will drown you."

Dean thought back to the ocean of dark water standing in the flooded fields and shuddered. It would be easy to drown in the darkness. Just seeing Sam in so much pain was driving him insane with grief.

At that moment, Rose returned. She carried a stack of sheets, a first aid kit, and incongruously, perched atop it all, was a large bag of potato chips. She handed it all but the chips over to Kane before retreating to his desk where she sat down, put her feet up and dove into her snack. Dean's stomach rumbled as the smell of fried potatoes wafted his direction. The demon, however, showed no inclination toward sharing.

"Funny," Dean said. "You struck me as a pork rinds kind of girl."

Rose looked at him without expression and said, "Pork rinds remind me too much of Hell." Slowly her mouth stretched into a smile that sent chills down Dean's spine. "Human skin does the same thing when you drop it in boiling oil, and it tastes exactly the same."

"Thanks for sharing."

"I could tell you more, little man. I could tell you things that would scare you so bad your balls would shrivel up and drop off."

"Well right there's a visual I could do without."

With a chuckle, Rose leaned back in her chair and continued eating. Dean turned his back on her to keep an eye on Kane, who had ignored the exchange and was carefully tending Sam's wound. The bleeding had stopped. Kane packed the wound with cotton gauze and wrapped Sam's midsection from hip to ribs with bandaging. Sam's breathing was barely perceptible. Dean could see his pulse beating just below his breastbone and timing it, realized it was steadily weakening.

Kane finished his bandaging and stood up. Dean braced himself, wondering what would come next. Something had to come next in order to save his brother. What they'd done so far had only seemed to make things worse.

"Rose," the warlock said quietly. "Take care of Dean."

"What?"

Dean's hand went to his belt, only to find the gun and the flask he'd brought with him were gone. In the next second he felt a rush of air, and turning, saw a blur of black leather and blonde hair come up behind him. He caught a glimpse of the demon's black eyes before he was lifted off his feet and slammed into a wall so hard it felt as if every bone were vibrating from the impact – every bone, his teeth, and his hair. He collapsed into a sprawl on the floor. Just before he lost consciousness he thought of Kane's words about darkness drowning him – and then darkness did.

When the boys were young, sometimes John traded favors for babysitting. He'd help someone rid themselves of a pesky spirit if in turn they watched his kids for a few days (or weeks) while he helped someone else. As a grown man Dean would come to realize how lucky they'd been not to have ended up with someone abusive – but then Dean had been using a gun since the age of five, and who would have wanted to go up against an angry John Winchester?

The first time Dean was ever knocked unconscious he'd been only seven years old. They'd been staying with another Hunter who lived in a rural area in Connecticut. The guy's day job was in real estate, and he'd made good money at it, enough money to buy a very nice home with a tennis court. Since he was a bachelor and was too busy to play tennis, he used the tennis court as a gun range. Seven year old Dean Winchester used the tennis court to practice his skateboarding, an activity he would never quite master. Despite being athletic and physically fit, something about the skateboard eluded Dean completely. He sucked at kickball and soccer too, although Sam found both exceptionally easy. Dean eventually concluded that anything involving having one foot off the ground upset his delicate sense of balance.

"You kick in doors all the time," Sam would later point out. "How is that different?"

Dean usually responded with a "you wouldn't understand if I tried to explain it to you" considering he had no idea and was only making excuses for his failure.

In any case, when he was seven, he was testing out his skateboarding skills on the smooth green surface of the tennis court while Sam walked along the white lines. Dean had told him that the green part of the tennis court was quicksand and if Sam stepped off the white parts, he would get sucked down and never be seen again. Even at two Sam was smart enough to realize his brother was full of crap, but it sounded like a fun game, so he played along. He walked the lines dragging a stuffed dog behind him by a string and singing the ABC song. It bugged Dean when Sam sung the ABC song because he consistently left out the letter "U" and the middle always came out somewhat garbled.

Thus, when Sam reached the letter "T" and was about to go on to "V" (because in his mind T and V were supposed to go together and damn the "U") Dean turned around to yell "U!" at him and fell off the skateboard. His head hit the court with a "thunk" sound similar to what one might hear when testing a watermelon for ripeness. That was the last thing Dean heard for a while.

The next thing Dean heard was Sam saying, "Dee! Dee! Way uh!" He felt a small hand pushing at his shoulder. "Way uh!"

Another kid might have been scared, and most kids might have started to cry, but Dean wasn't most kids. He'd rolled over, sat up, and then threw up. This final act was what got Sam going, because Dean lying sprawled out on the ground just registered as "nap." Dean throwing up his lunch registered as "sick." Sam had lit out as fast as his little legs could carry him back to the house to get help.

The rest of that day had been a blur as Dean was promptly taken to the hospital, determined to have a concussion, and put to bed with a frozen bag of peas for the giant goose-egg on the back of his head. Sam sat on the end of the bed reading him a story, as Dean often did when Sam was sick, only Dean actually knew how to read and he didn't hold the book upside down. Their babysitter sat downstairs drinking whiskey and praying John didn't kill him for bruising his kid.

All this went through Dean's pounding head as he lay on the floor of Vincent Kane's den, grappling with his consciousness which kept trying to slip back out of his grasp. If he hadn't been able to feel the rough carpet beneath his cheek and the sharp edge of his belt buckle digging into his navel, Dean might have thought he'd been paralyzed. He certainly couldn't move. He couldn't tell if this were due to something the demon did to him, or if his brain was simply too busy battling oblivion to send messages like "get the hell up" to the rest of his body.

From where he lay he could, once he forced his eyes open, see the bed. It was blurry, but he could make out Rose sitting on the mattress, and Kane standing nearby. He could not see Sam lying in the bed, or Kane from the knees up. He could, however, hear perfectly well.

Kane's voice was lower, Dean noted, and it had a different rhythm to it. As Dean listened he also heard the warlock refer to himself as if he weren't himself.

"Kane is an idiot."

"I agree," Rose replied.

"I should murder him, pull out his entrails and stuff them back down his own throat. I told him to keep his mouth shut. Now look what's happened. Winchester knows too much and one of Kane's morons shot my boy."

"Kill him later," the she-demon said. "He's still useful, and he's a good lay."

"As are you, my sweet." Kane's pacing stopped. Dean saw the ringed hand caress Rose's cheek. "You've always been my favorite protégé."

"Thank you."

"And thank you for bringing this situation to my attention. As you are my favorite, so is he."

"He's strong."

"Good breeding," Kane chuckled, and Dean began to realize that although it was Kane's body he heard, it was not Kane running the show. He'd been possessed. Another demon had entered the picture. "We have high hopes for this one.

"The son of a Hunter – you're - daring."

"You mean ballsy? Oh I know, aren't I? Hunters are so sanctimonious. The irony amuses me."

Dean struggled to make his mind and body engage. The best he could manage was to curl his fingers into the carpet. His lips moved, forming Sam's name, but he could produce no audible sound. When he heard the tell-tale sound of steel being drawn his efforts stopped cold. He saw the flash of light on metal, and a knife appeared in Rose's hand. He saw her look up at "Kane" with an awed expression.

"Me?" she asked.

"Our Father has foreseen a time when the importance of your role will surpass my own." The demon inside Kane laughed. "Take it, love, with my blessing. The boy must survive."

"Sssss," Dean gathered himself, and managed to get one arm beneath him. With monumental effort he got his upper body up off the floor. "Sssam…" A leg bent – he was on his hands and knees, his vision flickering like an old black and white movie.

He could see Rose bending over Sam, a bone handled knife in her hand.

"Sam," Dean croaked. "Buh…buh…bitch! Suh…stuh…stay a…away…"

Suddenly Kane's face appeared in his line of vision, but it wasn't Kane. The warlock's dark brown eyes glowed a baleful yellow color that reminded Dean of a Halloween cat, and he wore a toothy grin much like another iconic feline. As he leaned in close Dean could smell the demon's breath and his stomach threated to revolt like he'd been when he was seven. It stunk like rotten eggs.

"Tsk, tsk. Do you talk to your mother with that potty mouth?" The demon laughed. "Oh, no, you don't do you - because she's dead."

"Sam…don't you…hurt…I'll kill you, you son…of…a bitch."

"Oh, I don't think so Junior G-Man. I think you're going to take another nap."

"No!"

"Yes." Nodding, the demon drew back a fist. "Say good-night Gracie."

Dean had been punched before, but nothing like this. He had a split second to register the fact that it felt like he'd been hit in the face with a bowling ball before the lights went out. Vision went first, and then hearing, and just after he felt his head bounce off the carpet, all his senses went off-line.

This time he dreamed.

He dreamed of a dimly lit room, and a woman bathed in firelight as if she'd walked out of the flames themselves. All she wore were the flames, reflected in the beads of water strewn across her skin like tiny diamonds. Her long hair was golden.

Her eyes were black.

Dean moaned. The scene shifted into one he knew was coming, one that the more rational part of his brain was resisting, but he was twenty-one years old and a naked woman was a naked woman.

_How much stress have you been under lately?_

The sounds of sex were unmistakable. He saw her again silhouetted against the light of the fire, her lean, lithe body rising and falling back, rising and falling back, her spine arcing along with the motion. Closing her eyes, she tipped her head back and raised her arms. In one hand was a bone handled knife. She drew it across her chest, hissing as skin parted beneath the blade and blood began to run down her breasts.

A pair of hands ran up her sides, her lover's hands. He rose up from the bed to meet her, burying his face in her chest, mouth seeking skin, finding breasts, blood. Her fingers slipped through his hair, pulling him in close to her. He suckled her like a child might, but a Hell borne child, drinking not mother's milk, but his demon lover's blood. He licked her breasts clean, and wanted more. She hissed in pain as his tongue sought the cut upon her chest. She brought the knife into play again, making a second cut across the soft skin of her right breast, close to the nipple. He found the place and mouthed it eagerly, causing her to cry out again - this time with pleasure.

Their bodies strained against each other as their passion grew. Dean saw her throw back her head and laugh as he came inside her with a cry and a whimper. When she cupped his face in her hands, lifting his head so she could kiss his bloodstained mouth, Dean fully expected to see his own face there.

Not.

Sam's.

"Nuh…no…no…NO!"

Dean sat up, and nearly passed out again. He fell to his hands and knees and bent his head, waiting for the nausea and dizziness to end. His vision and hearing pulsed in and out. A second attempt to get to his feet failed and when the strength went out of his arms he collapsed back to the floor. He couldn't get up. A tidal wave of darkness was rolling back toward him. As it swept over his consciousness, drowning it once again, he heard a soft sigh and a woman's voice.

"Shh, shh, go to sleep now. Everything's going to be okay, you'll see."

If there was a reply, Dean didn't hear it. He was gone again, and this time for a long time. His dreams this time were fleeting and innocent. Hunger of a different sort fueled them. He dreamed not of sex, but of food, carnival food – caramel apples and cotton candy, fried cheese on a stick, and funnel cakes. He had snuck into a fair once a few years before, intending only to pick pockets in the crowd, but the sights and sounds and smells had gone straight to his brain, corrupting it. The fair was a drug, crack, and Dean got high on it. For several hours the unsung hero, the big bad Hunter of evil, became the eighteen year-old kid he should have been. Instead of shooting at monsters, he shot at a pyramid of milk bottles. Instead of riding the roads he rode the ferris wheel.

It had been midnight before Dean returned to the motel where they'd been staying with only a modicum of cash remaining in his pockets; he'd spent nearly as much as he'd stolen. Where he'd gone, what he'd done, he kept to himself and neither John nor Sam ever asked. It was one of Dean's few secrets. His day at the fair was all his own, a rare moment of pure happiness he did not want to share.

Sam would have been jealous.

_Dee! Way uh! Way uh, Dee!_

The sounds of the carnival faded. The smell of fried food became the musty scent of dusty carpeting. Dean groaned.

"Dean? Dean!"

"Sammy…"

"Dean, wake up!"

The hoarse whisper came from somewhere above him. Slowly, Dean raised his pounding head and for a second wondered how much he'd drunk to get such a raging hangover. His left arm, curled beneath him, was asleep, making getting up even harder. He tasted blood. His lip was cut, his mouth bruised. As he sat up he raised a hand to the back of his head.

"Ow."

He looked around the room. It was dark save for a fire smoldering in the hearth and a pale pink glow coming in through the window. Things weren't connecting, most things anyway. Those that were took a while to actually make sense. Dean looked up at the bed, the scene of his disturbing dream, and found a pale face peering over the edge at him.

"Sam?"

Memories fell neatly into place - Sam, the warlock, the demon girl…

"Dad!" Dean scrambled to his feet. The light at the window meant it was morning. "Sammy, we've got to get out of here, now!"

Sam nodded weakly. He was lying in the bed, clad only in his sweats and the white bandaging wrapped around his midsection. The wound was not bleeding, his eyes were bright and alert, and a little bit of color had returned to his cheeks, but it was clear from the sound of his voice he was still gravely injured.

"Where _is_ here? Dean, what's going on?"

"I'll fill you in later," Dean said hastily. A check of his pockets revealed no gun, and no flask, but the car keys were still there, and the rosary. "Can you walk?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"Then I can walk, but you have to help me."

Dean helped him sit up, and eased his legs over the side of the bed. Putting Sam's arm around his shoulder, Dean helped him to his feet. The grimace didn't escape his notice, but Sam didn't make any sound, gritting his teeth and taking it. After just a few steps Dean discovered he wasn't much steadier on his feet than his injured brother. The two of them supported each other as they made their way out of the den and into the foyer where they could see the front door ahead of them. This time Sam hissed in pain when Dean tightened his grip.

"Hold on Sammy, we're almost there."

"Going somewhere boys?"

The brothers froze, and as one, turned toward the sound of the voice.

Rose was sitting on the steps of what constituted a grand staircase, eating something out of a grease-stained paper bag. Fast food breakfast, Dean knew it well.

"You're going to lose your girlish figure," he told her, "if you keep eating that crap."

She shrugged. "What do I care? If this body gets fat, I just get a new body."

"You're sick."

"I'm a demon." Her voice lowered to a stage whisper. "We're not really very nice you know." She smiled at Sam. "Glad to see you on your feet, Sammy."

"What's it to you?" Sam growled back.

"Well, that's gratitude for you," Rose said. She crumpled up the bag and left it on the steps when she came down to meet them. "Look kid, you'd be dead if it weren't for me and Kane, so show a little more respect."

If it were possible, Sam went even paler. "What did you do to me?"

With a grin, she leaned in toward him, whispering, "It was magic." Leaning back again, she looked at her watch. "And you're on the clock, so if I were you…" this was addressed to Dean, "I'd be getting your asses to the nearest hospital. I've left a map in your car, thank you very much, Rose you're just a wonderful, wonderful person, g'bye now." With a little wave, she stepped back and indicated the door with a tip of her head.

Dean paused for a beat, but there really wasn't anything else to say at that moment, and Sam was beginning to get heavy. He and Sam made their way painstakingly out the door and down the steps to the Impala. Sam declined the back, making himself as comfortable as he could in the passenger's seat. Dean made sure he was settled before he went back to the house one last time.

Rose was leaning in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. She wasn't wearing leather this morning, but jeans and a loose white blouse. Dean stood in front of her and held out his hand.

She looked at him, and then rolled her eyes and pulled his gun out of the back of her jeans. "Sheesh, men and their guns. Is it a penis thing?"

"What?"

"Oh, never mind," she said. "But I'm serious, Dean. Sam's little magical PCP trip isn't going to last long. You need to get him to the hospital, stat!" She grinned. "I've always wanted to say that."

"Last night, there was another demon here…"

"Uhmm, no, there's no other demon here, just me."

"You're lying. I saw him." Dean winced. "He hit me."

"Oh, him," she laughed. "He was nobody, just passing through."

"He knew about my mother."

"Newsflash kiddo, everybody knows about your mother. That was a pretty big deal on the other side…hey!"

Dean had rushed her, grabbed her by the arms and slammed her up into the doorframe. "Why? Dammit! You tell me what you know!" He cocked his head. "It was a demon? Is that it? A demon killed my mother? Is that what Kane told my father?"

Rose didn't try to escape him, despite the fact his fingers gripped her with bruising force, but then, she admittedly didn't care much about a body not her own. She simply stood there quietly, letting him hurt her.

"I'm not at liberty to say."

"You goddamn bitch," Dean shook her, hard. "ANSWER ME!"

"Go fuck yourself." With one smooth move, she twisted free of his grasp and shoved him away from her. Dean stumbled backward and she stepped away from the wall. "I warned you before, Dean. This is way bigger than you. What killed your mother is far beyond your pathetic little Hunter hoopy-doo, and if you keep playing around with the big boys, little man, you're going to do nothing but get yourself gutted." Her lip curled derisively. "I'm not telling you jack shit."

Dean still had his gun in his hand. He raised his arm and pulled back the hammer, aiming for her heart.

Rose chuckled. "Shooting me won't do anything but ruin my blouse."

"Sure, but it will make me feel a whole hell of a lot better."

"Fine," she said, pulling the neck of her shirt down to expose more of her chest. "Go ahead. Take your best shot, cowboy. Have at it."

The barest touch of his finger a bullet would shatter her breastbone, and yes, it would be futile, but it would scratch an itch that he had been suffering from for the past two days. Inaction was not something normally in Dean Winchester's repertoire. He hated to wait. He despised stretches of time wherein there were no jobs to do, nothing to Hunt, and was like his father in that respect. Those were the times Sam relished, but not his father and brother. John spent most of the down times drunk. Dean hustled pool and slept with as many different women as he could hook up with, and it was because without occupation, their minds always, always, returned to what they had lost. Holes had to be filled, memories suppressed, or the pain would overwhelm them - like it had overwhelmed Vincent Kane.

Dean had been in a holding pattern for far too long without anything to do but worry and fret and think about things he didn't want to think about. Something, someone had to pay the price – even if that price was nothing more than the cost of a new blouse.

He aimed, took a deep breath…and then froze.

What had at first been hidden by her shirt was exposed when she pulled the neckline down – the gentle curve of her breasts, the hard outline of her breastbone, and the creamy expanse of skin beneath her throat. It was there Dean could see the thin red line of a wound in the beginning stages of healing. It was bloodless now, but in his mind's eye he recalled how much it had bled when it had been fresh, and exactly what had become of that blood.

Dean took a step backward, shaking his head in denial. The hand holding the gun began to tremble. With his free hand he reached into his pocket for the rosary, grasping it in his fist. Rose watched, expressionless, but there was a glint in her eyes that told him she knew exactly what he'd seen.

"You bitch," he said hoarsely. "What did you do?"

Rose gave him a sly smile. "You mean daddy never gave you 'the talk,' Dean?"

"He's just a kid…" Unable to hold them back, tears filled Dean's eyes. "He's just a kid," he repeated.

"Yeah but he fucks like a pro," the demon laughed.

Something clicked inside Dean's head, like a latch upon a door, and what was unleashed came boiling out from the very depths of his soul dark, and mean, and angry.

With a guttural cry of rage he lunged forward, punching Rose in the face as hard he could, the gun in his hand giving the blow even more weight. His follow-through came from the left hand – a solid blow to her face from the opposite direction, and this time it was the rosary that left an impact. She went down, or would have if Dean hadn't grabbed her arm. He held her body up and punched her again, and again. He felt her nose break. His knuckles split upon her teeth. The white blouse became splattered with blood. A small voice at the back of his mind told him it was wrong to beat up a woman, but this, he rationalized, was no woman.

She was a demon, and she was laughing at him.

Rose laughed until Dean finally let her fall to the ground, where she sat with her back up against the doorjamb, wiping the blood from her mouth with the back of one hand. Her grin was grisly, her words slurred, but her eyes still mocked him.

"Poor stupid, stupid, Dean, you really don't know what you're getting yourself into."

Dean turned his back and walked away.

"I'll see you in Hell, little man!" Rose crowed. "I'll see you in Hell!"

"I'm sure you will, bitch," Dean muttered as he hurried back to the car.

Sam was slumped heavily against the passenger's side door, his hands pressed to his side. He'd begun sweating again, and his face was parchment white. He stared fearfully at Dean who tried not to look – at least not until he had the car started and the engine running, and even then he waited until they reached the end of Kane's driveway.

The Chevy idled, her rumbling purr soothing Dean's nerves. He put it in park and turned to examine his brother more closely. He moved his Sam's hands and saw blood on the bandages – the wound had begun bleeding again.

"Dammit!"

He grabbed the folded map Rose had left on the dashboard. She'd highlighted it in yellow highlighter, mapping out a twisting, weaving route from their current location to the nearest hospital. There were more direct ways to go, but Dean suspected they were probably under water. It would take them the better part of an hour to get there.

"Hang on, Sammy."

Throwing the shift into drive, Dean stepped on the gas and peeled out in a spray of wet gravel.

"Verdict's out…" Sam said quietly, "whether it'll be the gut shot that kills me or your driving." He groaned as he sat up a little straighter.

"Sam! Stay still!"

"I'm okay."

"No you're not!" Dean said frantically. "It was bad last night, Sammy, real bad." He navigated around a pothole that hadn't been there the night before. "We thought you were a goner."

"So Dad gave me to a demon?"

"No. Dad didn't _give_ you to a demon," Dean said defensively.

"So you didn't just beat the living crap out of a demon back there?"

"Yes, but…it was Kane, the warlock. Dad thought he could help." He went on to explain Kane's relationship with their father and the warlock's offer to help Sam make it through the night. "I don't know what they did exactly…but you're better, and it isn't gonna last much longer."

"It was a spell," Sam murmured. "And Dad let them take me, just like that?"

"He sent me with you," Dean returned, and then added, bitterly, "and a lot of good that did."

"You were out-gunned, and he knew it, Dean. You couldn't have stopped them." Sam's voice faded slightly. "Did you see it?"

"See what?"

"The ritual."

Dean flinched a little bit as the vision of what he _had_ seen rushed into his head. He shoved it back out with haste. "No, not really. You don't, uh…remember anything?"

Sam got real quiet, which scared Dean enough to risk a good long look over in his direction. Sam hadn't passed out as Dean had feared, but he didn't look far from it. Instead he was just sitting there looking pensive, almost as if he were picking and choosing what he wanted to say and what he didn't.

"Sam?" Dean prompted.

"It's real fuzzy," Sam said finally. After another significant pause he added, "But that warlock, and a _demon_? Dean, it was black magic. Dad let them do black magic on me. Why would he do that?"

"You were dying, Sammy."

"Maybe he should have just let me die."

The words struck Dean as if he'd been sucker punched. "Sam," he said hoarsely. "Don't talk like that. Please don't talk like that."

"What if they did more than they were supposed to?" Sam asked, and the sound of his voice made Dean spare him another quick look. He was obviously frightened. "What if they healed me and left something nasty behind?"

Dean squeezed the Impala's steering wheel. "They didn't."

"How do you know? You said you didn't see anything."

"I just know, okay! I just know," Dean barked.

Sam shut up. Dean stewed quietly as he continued to drive. Sam wasn't wrong, Rose, the warlock, or that other demon could have done anything and Dean wouldn't have known about it. What spell had Rose cast? It was dark to be sure, because blood and sex and magic were a nasty combination. They'd said it had just been to give Sammy enough strength to survive through the night. Was that all? Could there have been something else?

A detour not on Rose's map brought Dean to a halt in front of a flooded stretch of roadway. They would have to go around, adding time to their overall journey. Dean checked the map, cursing softly to himself about the delay. Sam had been quiet for some time. He looked to be dozing in his seat, but Dean could see the sweat beginning to dampen his hair and skin despite the fact he had started to shiver. Sam was beginning to regress. Shock and fever were returning.

"Sam?"

Sam opened his eyes. "Huh?"

"Not doing too good?"

"No." Sam took in a long, slow breath. "Not doing too good."

With a nod, Dean put the car in reverse and backed up until he found their turn. "We have to go around this, but it won't be much longer, okay?"

" 'kay." Sam rubbed at his eyes. "I had a dream," he said.

"Yeah, what about, butterflies and buttercups?"

Normally Sam would have been smart right back, and that he didn't, was telling. Instead he remained serious, even grim. "I saw death," he murmured chillingly. "A black dog, and blood, blood everywhere…"

A black dog; there was no other death omen as ominous as a black dog.

"You aren't going to die, Sammy!" Dean insisted fearfully. "I won't let that happen. I won't."

"I'm not going to die," Sam said softly, his voice oddly distant, "You are."

Dean nearly drove off the road. "What?" He laughed uneasily. "I'm not gonna die. It was just a bad dream."

Sam's expression was wan, emotionless. "People shouldn't scream like that," he said hoarsely. "Not like that." He shuddered. "There's blood on the ceiling."

"Sam…"

"It's so bright, bright red, ruby red. It's ruby red, Dean."

"Sam, stop." Dean slowed down so he could safely look at his brother. Tears were starting to run down Sam's face, although his dull expression hadn't changed. "It's just a dream."

"I've seen it." Sam closed his eyes. Tears continued to fall. "Close his eyes," he whispered. "I can see Hell! Close his eyes! I can see it!" He groaned, and now his expression shifted, becoming stricken with grief, and his silent tears turned to heartbroken sobs. "I can see it. It's red, ruby red…ruby…"

"Side effect," Rose said from somewhere in the back seat.

This time Dean did drive off the road. Startled out of his wits by the sound of her voice and the sight of her unmarred face suddenly appearing in his rearview mirror, caused him to start so badly he wrenched the wheel to the right. The Chevy jerked sideways, her right front tire slipped off the pavement onto the berm and she lurched to a bone jarring stop just short of going nose first into a drainage ditch full of floodwater. Sam's tears of grief became tears of pain. He wrapped his arms around his midsection and moaned.

Dean whipped around to confront their uninvited passenger. "What in the hell are you doing?"

"You know he's got a little precog going on there," the demon continued, as if they hadn't just come within a hairs breadth of wrecking the car. She smiled. "I told you I'd see in you Hell, Dean, and baby brother just confirmed it."

"Get out," Dean snarled.

Instead of getting out of the car, Rose leaned forward over the seat, folding her arms along the back. "You see, somewhere down the line – could be later today, could be tomorrow, or years from now – you're going to sell your soul, and when you die, you're going to go to Hell." She tilted her head slightly, looking at Dean askance. "I find that intriguing. What would make you want to sell your soul? I can't imagine it would be for love, or money, or fame. No, that's not your style. But ah…" Rolling her eyes the opposite direction, Rose focused on Sam. "Family…" She reached out a hand and touched Sam's shoulder in a soothing caress. "You'd do it for Sammy, wouldn't you Dean?"

It was a struggle for Dean not to let her see how scared he really was of her, how her very presence in the car made him cold with fear. Every fiber of his being screamed "RUN!" at him, and yet, he stayed. He hoped pitching his voice low would disguise the trembling note he knew would be there.

"So, is this it? Is this the way you're going to help him?"

Rose sat up and gave him a cool look, only a second before laughing at him. "You think _I'm_ offering you a deal; right here, right now?"

"That's what it sounds like."

"Wrong. Deal making is way above my pay grade, but you'll be looking at Hell sooner rather than later if you don't keep driving." She jerked her head toward Sam. "Sitting here wasting time throwing wild accusations at me is killing him."

Dean turned around. Sam was slumped against the door, obviously unconscious.

"Sam!"

The back door opened, then closed again, and Rose reappeared at the passenger's side door. She slipped inside, easing in next to Sam. "Go!" she said. Sam's head fell limply against her shoulder. She wrapped her arm around him to hold him steady. To Dean she snapped, "Are you deaf as well as stupid?"

He wasn't deaf, nor was he stupid. Dean turned around and started driving, fear and anger manifesting as boldness. Rose held Sam steady while Dean concentrated on driving. He drove far faster than he should have, took risks he shouldn't have, and they finally arrived at the hospital, the place that had seemed so out of reach just hours before. Exhausted, Dean stumbled into the ER and grabbed the nearest doctor-like person he could find.

"My brother…he's been shot!"

They immediately rushed out to the car to get Sam while Dean was grilled for more information. The hospital was in chaos because of the flooding, the authorities were tied up with road-blocks and rescues. Dean claimed Sam had been shot by accident while the two of them were trying to protect their home from looters. He squeezed out some tears. They took his story at face value and told him to wait for a doctor to come talk to him.

Rose had vanished just before Dean pulled up to the ER, but her words stayed with him a long time. They circled him like a flock of buzzards as if just waiting for him to die. How bad was it going to get now? Arriving at the hospital was no guarantee of Sam's survival. Would Sam's vision of the future, if that's truly what it was, become the _now_ so soon?

And if it did, what would Dean do?

_I see death…_

Dean found a ten in his wallet and went to the cafeteria to get some real food in his stomach and wait for news. While he was there he tried his cell phone once more. This time when he dialed his father's number he heard it ringing. This time John answered.

"We're at the hospital," Dean said wearily. "Sam's in surgery."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," John replied hastily. "Hang on, Dean. I'm coming."

On his very last reserves, Dean could barely finish his meal. At one point he was forced to put his head down upon his arms. His intent was just to rest his eyes for a few minutes, but that's not what happened. He fell asleep there at the table, waking over two hours later when he felt a familiar touch upon his shoulder. He jerked his throbbing head up to find his father standing over him.

John looked like Dean was feeling - bruised, battered, wrung out completely – but he managed a small, sad smile. "He's asking for you."

Sam was already out of ICU, in a private room in the children's ward. He'd ask of Dean later, "Did they know how old I am?" They had, but put Sam in the children's ward regardless. This was because it was a small hospital, and most of the other rooms were taken up by flood victims. Blessedly, there had not been many children among them.

When Dean slipped into his room, Sam was sleeping, but as Dean pulled a chair up close to the edge of the bed, his eyes cracked open. Wrapped up in bandages, hooked up to various monitors, oxygen hoses, and at least two IV tubes he looked like something out of a mad scientist movie. Their conversation would be short but poignant.

Sam had one important message he wanted to get across.

"Don't tell Dad."

"About what?" Dean asked.

"Anything," Sam whispered. "Don't tell him anything."

"Sammy, I have to!"

"Why? Why do everything he tells you? Can't you keep anything to yourself?"

Dean hesitated. Sam didn't let him reply.

"Dean, please. Tell him they knocked you out and you don't know what happened."

"What did happen, Sam? Do you remember?"

"No," Sam replied quickly. "I was delirious. I don't remember."

"But I saw..."

Sam's voice was tight, his words clipped. "You didn't see anything, Dean."

At first Dean felt a brief surge of annoyance. Sam was asking him to lie, to keep something potentially important from their father. Was there more to what happened with Rose?

"Sam, I just…"

"Please, Dean. Please!

Dean stopped abruptly on a reply, suddenly realizing Sam was scared, and not of Kane, or Rose, or anything they represented. He was afraid of their father. This realization scared _Dean_, and for what reason he didn't know. Perhaps fear was contagious, or because he simply knew his brother. Sam didn't frighten easy. If he was afraid, he had a good reason. What Sam's reason for fearing his own father might be, Dean did not want to contemplate. He just wanted to get past this, and move on, and giving up a promise of silence, he rationalized, was much easier than giving up his soul.

_It's probably just the sex. Sammy is such a prude, and Dad would go ballistic if he knew Sam got laid by a girl, let alone a demon. Cripes, that's gross._

"I didn't see, or hear anything Sammy," Dean said finally. "I promise."

Sam nodded, and closed his eyes. "Thank you," his voice softened, barely audible, sleep was starting to drag him down. "Thank you."

With a sigh, Dean leaned back in his chair. He couldn't stay long. Visiting hours were nearly over, and there was an E.R. doctor lurking around who wanted to give Dean a cat-scan. They suspected he had a concussion. Dean was familiar enough with concussions to _know_ he had one working. All he needed was to pilfer some pain meds and he'd be fine.

Everything would be fine.

Sam was going to be okay, and so was Dean. Neither of them would die and nobody was going to go to Hell. Whatever Kane had told John about their mother, Dean was sure his father would handle appropriately – _if_ that's even what it had been in the first place. As for Rose; well, demons lied didn't they? They enjoyed screwing with the human psyche. Sam was no soothsayer, he'd just been dreaming, and Rose was an evil, conniving bitch. She'd just been fucking with them. Maybe Dean hadn't really seen what he'd thought he'd seen. He did have a concussion after all.

"It was just a dream." he murmured to himself. "And a whole lot of crap."

Crap that he would try real hard to forget.

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

The she-demon sat on the end of his bed, watching, waiting, and probably knowing he only feigned sleep. Dean was gone, or the girl would never have gotten into the room, not after what she'd done. Sam knew his brother had seen it. They both wanted to pretend he hadn't.

Sam opened his eyes a little further and turned his head upon the pillow. He could see her clearly now, sitting there, her long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back in loose golden waves. He recalled how soft it had been, and how good it had smelled. When she saw him staring at her she smiled.

"Hello, Sammy. Feeling better now?"

He hesitated before he answered, not really knowing the answer. The doctors had patched him up, and he'd heard them remarking in hushed tones about how unusually good the wound looked for being over twenty-four hours old. There was no bullet. His bowel had not been breached, and the tear in his stomach was small. He would heal quickly and without complications. Sam knew this was wrong. He'd known how bad it had been. He should be dead. Whatever the warlock and his demon had done not only got him through the night, but it had sped up the healing process as well.

It still hurt, though not nearly as badly as before, and all the tubes and wires attached to him made him uncomfortable. The small room was hot too. Sam wondered if he really felt better, or if he'd just entered a place with a different sort of discomfort. Mentally he did _not_ feel better. He felt worse, wracked with guilt and terrified of what had happened to him. Something wasn't right inside him, it had never been right in Sam's mind, and now it had become even more obvious that he was somehow different. That terrified him more than dying.

Oddly, having a demon perched on the end of his bed, didn't – much.

"What do you want?" he asked hoarsely.

She shrugged. "I was just concerned. I thought I'd check on you." Her smile broadened slightly. "And I wanted to thank you. It's not often I enjoy the company of a virgin."

Sam flushed. "I wasn't…"

"You think I couldn't tell?" Her eyes flashed black, demonic, and then cleared again so quickly Sam wondered if he'd really seen it. "I'm a demon, and a witch. I could smell it on you." Leaning forward ever-so-slightly, she slipped her hand beneath the blanket and ran it up his thigh. "Oh, I know about the story you told Dean, about having sex with Terri Owen's slutty sister, but you lied didn't you?"

"No. I didn't."

"Well," Rose amended, "perhaps it was simply ignorance." Her hand found what it had been seeking, and Sam flinched beneath her touch. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "A blow job from a girl half dunk out of her mind doesn't count, Sammy," she said, her grin turning lecherous, "especially if she doesn't swallow."

"Uh…" Sam curled his fingers into the mattress. "Stop."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

"That's not the impression I'm getting…"

Sam's eyes watered. He really didn't want her to stop, but as good as _that_ part of him felt, the rest of him was protesting - loudly. "You're hurting me."

Rose stopped. Her hand reappeared on top of the blanket. Sam let out a breath in relief. She observed him for some time before she spoke again. This time her voice was soft, gentle, and without malice. It was a voice that could lure a man into complacency, a voice like bait.

"In some cultures we would be considered married, you and I."

"What?" Sam squeaked.

"An exchange of blood, of seed, the loss of virginity; it's pretty binding. Oh, I'm not a virgin by any means," Rose clarified. "But this…" She indicated her body with a sweep of her hand. "She was, so I'm sure it counted as a double deflowering."

Sam blanched, realizing what she meant. The girl she possessed had been a virgin. So in effect, she'd been raped twice - figuratively, and literally - first when Rose took over her body, and then when the demon forced that body to have sex with Sam. He felt sick. He hadn't exactly consented either, and by law wasn't old enough _to_ consent, but demons cared very little about human laws – or morals.

"Let her go!" he pleaded.

"In time, I will." The demon stood fluidly. She turned to face the bed. "I have to go, but we'll meet again, Sam."

Sam felt a surge of fear. He broke out in a cold sweat. "Don't count on it," he said, trying, and failing, to maintain an air of bravado. His voice had failed him, dropping to a raspy, trembling, whisper.

"But I do count on it," Rose replied with a smile. "I'm sure of it."

"You…" Sam felt his mouth dry up even more. "You can see the future?" he asked.

"No," she said. "But you can."

Between one blink and another, she was gone, leaving Sam to mull over what she'd said. In his delirium he'd dreamed many things, and thought they were just that – dreams. One, however, stood out in his mind, and only because of the agonizing grief it had brought with it and how clear it had been.

He'd heard a dog snarling, followed by the high-pitched wail of a grown man screaming in agony. Sam saw blood arc across a clean white wall and splatter upon the ceiling. The screams died with a liquid gurgle. A man lay on the floor in a pool of blood, his body torn open, his heart ripped from his chest. His eyes were still open, wide, staring, but there was no light left within them.

No light.

No laughter.

No love.

No life.

Dean was dead. His screams joined those of the damned. His face peered out from within a column of blue fire. His eyes were demonic black. There was blood on his hands.

_You did this to me!_

Sam turned away in denial, ran into the arms of a woman.

No…

A demon.

She was dark haired and petite, naked in the firelight, her body warm with desire and he…he couldn't resist her no matter how hard he tried. He'd taken her. It had been rough, angry; almost violent. He'd dug his fingers into her arms when he came and the next day there were ugly black bruises there upon her skin. Sex burned away his grief, slaked his fury. He felt nothing but the overwhelming urge to exact revenge upon the one who had killed his brother. There became nothing more important than that, nothing

_I can help you._

_How?_

Her blood was sweet, like a rich, fruity wine. It was strangely cold too, but burned like whiskey going down his throat. His future-self recalled the taste, but could not place it, did not relate it to anything in his past.

Or did he, and just didn't care?

His past-self groaned at his own forgetfulness, his own foolishness, whichever it may have been.

In his vision she had collected a drop of blood with one finger and offered it to him to suck. Her eyes were black and in them Sam saw his own damnation. Here was Satan offering Eve the cursed apple, seducing her into committing the first sin. He was afraid, both in the past and in the future, but in the future, his pain and his need for vengeance, overcame his fear.

The drop of blood poised upon her fingertip sparkled in the firelight like a gemstone.

Like a ruby.

And Sam reached out to take it.


End file.
